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A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON 



A MODERN 


Dick Whittington 



JAMES PAYN 


AUTHOR OF 


'‘for cash only/’ “a prince of the blood,” “by proxy,” 
“lost sir massingberd,” “the confidential 


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NEW YORK 

JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY . 

1 19 Potter Building 



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Copyright, 1892, by 

JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — Over the Wall, 7 

II. — The Frankness of Youth, 15 

III. — Father and Son, 24 

IV. — How THE Dinner Party was Arranged, . . 30 

V. — Lawrence and His Relatives, . . . .38 

VI. — Introduction, 46 

VII. — At the Dinner Table, 53 

Vlll. — W hen the Ladies had Withdrawn, . . .69 

IX. — In THE Drawing-Room, 67 

X. — It Might Have Been Poetry, 76 

XI. — The Courage of His Opinions, . . . .86 

XII. — The Honored Guest, . . . . > . 95 

XIII. — The “Stretcher,” loi 

XIV. — At “The Corner,” . . ... 108 

XV. — The Judiciousness OF Fifty, 116 

XVI. — An Error in a Telegram, 125 

XVII. — A Narrow Escape, 133 

XVIII. — The Honorarium, 141 

XIX. — The Indian Summer, 147 

XX. — Aunt Jerry, . . . . . . . .154 

XXI. — Hooking Their Fish, ...... 162 

5 


6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXII. — Kitty is not Sanguine, 170 

XXIII. — An Old Friend, ....... 179 

XXIV. — In Church, 186 

XXV. — Squire and Parson, 193 

XXVI. — A Favor Refused, 201 

XXVII. — A Little Favor, 207 

XXVIII. — Farewell, . . . . .213 

XXIX. — At Hurley, . . . . . . .221 

XXX. — Nelson Crescent, ..... 229 

XXXI. — Letters from Home, 238 

XXXH. — Ruth and Kate, 246 

XXXIII. — What Ruth Overheard, 255 

XXXIV. — By the Sick-Bed, . . . . . . 265 

XXXV. — More Trouble, 273 

XXXVI. — A Friend in Need, 281 

XXXVH. — The Patron’s Emissary, 291 

XXXVIII. — The Last Resort, . • 299 

XXXIX. — News Indeed, 307 

XL. — Wise at Last, . 316 

XLI. — All’s Well, 328 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


CHAPTER I. 

OVER THE WALL. 

So Sir Charles is coming- to Hillsland, I hear, 
Lorry?'’ 

“ Yes, for a day or two.” 

The question and answer were both as indifferent as 
the human voice could make them. The speakers, in 
fact, had been talking of something else, of far more 
inportance to both of them, but unhappily they were 
not agreed upon it. Kate Salesby and Lawrence 
Merridew were as old friends as their united ages — 
which were but one and forty — permitted them to be, 
but of late they had differed — though they had never 
“ fallen out” — upon one subject. 

The young woman was the elder, and she looked it. 
Her tall figure, though far from plump, was fully devel- 
oped ; her face, which, but for the kiss of the sun from 
which she had taken little pains to protect herself, would 
have borne comparison with that of any fashionable 
beauty, had a sedate expression, which, while it became 
her admirably, suggested discretion. It was well for 
her, one would say, that under the present circumstances 

7 


8 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


she possessed it. The young fellow who was her com- 
panion, though by no means so handsome for a man as 
she for a woman, had great personal attractions. His 
appearance was peculiar , he had fair curling hair, a 
delicately chiselled face of bronze, and very dark eyes. 
Such a contrast might not itself have suited every taste, 
but the expression of the face was charming — full of 
intelligence, sympathizing, demonstrative, and but a 
moment ago fervent with passionate appeal. Under 
the spell of such eloquence of feature, it would have 
been difficult for any woman, not unsexed, to have re- 
sisted him, and it had cost even Kate Salesby a struggle. 

As she cast down her beautiful eyes under his pas- 
sionate glance, they had, however, fallen upon his boots, 
which, being patched and old, reminded her of certain 
obstacles to his prayer absolutely insurmountable, but 
which for the moment she had almost forgotten. To 
strengthen her resolve, though it gave her pain, she 
compelled herself, as he went on, to take an inventory of 
his apparel. It had never been of good material, and it 
was mended — very neatly, but still mended — in half a 
dozen places. Even his “ wide-awake ” was frayed at 
the edges; and it was wonderful (she thought to her- 
self) how well, nevertheless, he looked. For how few 
are the human countenances that can overcome the effect 
of a bad hat; and yet Lawrence Merridew overcame it. 
He looked a gentleman and something more — and 
much more, as the girl vaguely recognized — ^for all the 
shortcomings of his clothes. 

She was but poorly dressed herself, as one of her own 
sex would have pronounced it at once. There were 
no patches, however, and if she had stood “in silk at- 
tire," instead of that simple print, she could not have 


OVER THE WALL. 


9 


looked more distinguished. It is strange how often 
we hear of nature’s noblemen, when nature’s noble- 
women, who are much more often met with, are alto- 
gether ignored. So far as birth was concerned, 
however, Kate was much the superior of her companion, 
for she belonged to one of the oldest families in Corn- 
wall; so old, indeed, that it had worn itself out; 
whereas the Merridews were nouveaux riches; only Law- 
rence was nouveau and not riche^ as will be presently 
made plain. 

What you suggest, my dear Lorry,” she had been 
saying, after that review of his raiment, for I will not 
call it by so serious a name as a proposal, is out of the 
question. It is a dream — delightful, I confess, to me 
as to you, but from which, as matters stand, were we 
to indulge in it, we should have indeed a rude awaken- 
ing. Of your truth and honor I have no doubt ; I be- 
lieve every word you say to me. Nay, since you press 
me, I do not deny that I love you ; but love does not 
blind me, as it blinds you. I look — it may seem cruel 
to you, but I am cruel only to be kind — beyond to-day, 
and even to-morrow. It is my nature, perhaps, to do 
so ; but I have had also a bitter home experience of what 
comes of not looking forward — of trusting to that some- 
thing good to happen to us which never does happen. 
How beautiful is this orchard in which we are now 
standing; how bright and beautiful are these apple 
blossoms ; how cool the long grasses on which we tread ; 
how laden with the coming summer is the air we 
breathe ! But before the year is out, these trees will be 
bare, and their fruit fallen; the ground will be a 
swamp ; it will be difficult to recognize the spot which 
the spring and the sunlight make so charming to us. 


lo 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


So it would be, almost as soon, with yonr love-story, if 
I were weak enough to listen to it. Its passion would 
have passed away ; its glory would have faded, through 
no fault of yours or mine. Poverty — abject poverty — 
would have blighted it. It is true you only ask for a 
promise ; but when that is given, how hard it will be 
to deny you more! 

“I will ask no more, Kitty,” he broke in earnestly. 

I will be content with your promise.” 

“ You think so now, but you would not think so then ; 
moreover, I should not be content to wait for you indefi- 
nitely. I know there are women who, when once 
they have confessed their love, would be content to 
wait; but I do not possess their nobility of soul. There 
is, moreover, another thing. Lorry, you would do well 
to consider; you rate me too high — you credit me with 
virtues I do not possess.” 

“You are good enough for me, Kitty, at all events,” 
he answered gently, “and much better than I deserve.” 

“ I do not say that, though I have no mean opinion of 
myself. You will be a husband of whom — one day — 
any woman should be proud ; but under present cir- 
cumstances you are not, as my father would say ‘ good 
enough.' The very thought of him, and the pass to 
which poverty has brought him and me, hardens my 
heart against you, Lorry.” 

She did not look “hard;” her face was full of tender- 
ness, though her voice was firm, and even cold. He 
put his arm out — for he was close by her — to clasp her 
waist, but she drew back. 

“No, Lorry,” she said, “not again — nor perhaps, 
ever again. This has gone far enough, I will not be 
fooled by my own fancy.” 


OVER THE WALL. 


1 1 

‘‘Fancy!” he exclaimed reproachfully. “Do you 
call your love for me by such a name as that?” 

“ What other name can better suit it? What is it, as 
I have said, but a pleasant dream? We are penniless, 
you and I ; and only not beggars because there is no 
one in the whole wide world to whom we can sue for 
help. In a little time you will have left England, with 
what hope of coming back again a prosperous man I 
need not ask you. Your calling has been chosen for 
you, and is a distasteful one; and fortunes are not made 
that way. Yet you wish me to promise to wait here 
for years and years until you have made one. There 
is one chance, to be sure, beside. Perhaps your 
grandfather may provide for you; perhaps, as my 
father says when he is merry — that is, when he is not 
sober — the heavens may fall, and we may have lark pie 
for supper. Is your grandfather so fond of you? Is 
your Uncle Robert, who rules him, likely to advocate 
your claims upon him? You do not, I know, hope that 
your mother will die that you may inherit her scanty 
income. What is your hope then? What is the lot in 
life — at its best, at its brightest — you ask me to 
share?” 

She spoke without contempt, but like one who is 
conscious that his arguments are irresistible. 

The young man bowed his head before them as 
though before some physical force. 

“You forget that I have my pen,” he murmured 
plaintively. 

“ Indeed, I do not forget it. Your fine brain, and 
the fancies that inhabit it, are not the least among the 
many things for which I love and admire you. I am no 
judge of such matters, it is true , but I believe you have 


12 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


great talents. Nay, since among such surroundings 
and discouragements you exercise them as you do, it 
may be even genius that you possess ; but even if you 
do, what then? Genius, as my father says of a goose, 
is too much for one but not enough for two. It turns 
a man's head, but not the kitchen spit. Geniuses, 
even the best of them, are poor, dear Lorry, and, setting 
aside other considerations, better without wives." 

“ But although I may never be rich, Kitty, I may 
yet make money, by writing, sufficient for our simple 
needs." 

The girl's lips curled at this. She was not enamoured 
of such simplicity. The root and the spring" were 
too familiar to her to be attractive. But her companion 
thought that she was expressing incredulity of his 
literary powers, and it cut him to the heart. 

“ I believe I have a better chance with my pen than 
you think, Kitty," he answered gently. 

‘‘I did not mean that^'' she replied earnestly, and 
with a quick flush. ‘‘You do not think, you surely do 
not think, that I was making — well, making light of 
your talents. Lorry, darling. You may think me hard 
and mercenary, but I am not like that." She stepped 
forward with tears in her eyes, and kissed his cheek. 
It was a dangerous impulse ; the young fellow had been 
gradually quieting down under his companion's judi- 
cious treatment, and it brought about a relapse. 

“You do love me a little, then, after all," he ex- 
claimed triumphantly. 

“ I love you so much. Lorry, that I will not permit 
you to ruin yourself for my sake. " 

“Yes, yes," he answered impatiently, “I understand 
all that, though I do not agree with it ; but what I 


OVER THE WALL. 


13 


mean is, if I have a little luck in literature, if I make 
enough before I go abroad to be an earnest of better 
fortune. 

She shook her head. “That will not do, Lorry,” she 
put in resolutely; “that would be promise and not 
performance, which is the very thing you propose to ex- 
act from me.” 

“ But if I made enough by my pen in England, 
within the year — such an income as would do away 
with the necessity of my going to Singapore at all — 
would you give me your promise then?” 

“What! If you made an income before you were 
twenty-one years of age! Well, there can be no harm 
in saying ‘ Yes ’ to that, because it would be a miracle, 
and miracles do not happen. You no more expect such 
a thing than I do.” 

“Still, I have your promise,” he answered, it must 
be confessed in no very hopeful tone. 

“ My poor Lorry, it can be but the promise of a pro- 
mise, the shadow of a shadow. But such as it is, you 
are welcome to it. Now let us give over this unprofit- 
able talk, and discourse of something else.” 

And then it was that she had put the question about 
Sir Charles Walden’s coming to Hillsland; and he had 
answered that his stay would be for a day or two. She 
continued, in an amused tone: 

“And what is supposed to be Sir Charles’s attrac- 
tion?” 

Lawrence shrugged his shoulders. He had really 
given little thought to the matter, but the indifference 
born of his present condition — disappointed, denied, 
almost rejected, as he felt himself to be — would have 
prevented his giving any subject his attention. 


14 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


I understand he wishes to make the acquaintance 
of my grandfather.” 

At this the young girl burst out laughing. Bright 
and merry as a bugle-horn the music of her merriment 
clove the air. It was no guffaw such as man, coarse 
man, indulges in when his senses of humor is inordin- 
ately tickled; but yet “so clear and far” it sped that it 
set the echo that lived in the old lichened wall on the 
other side of the orchard replying to it. 

“You really think that, do you?” she exclaimed, 
when she got her breath. “ Then it will be a sin and a 
shame indeed. Lorry, if the old fellow leaves you no 
legacy. Such a compliment deserves a codicil all to it- 
self. Is it likely that his High Mightiness, Sir Charles 
Walden, as learned as the bishop, though he says his 
prayers backward, as fastidious as Lord Chesterfield, 
and a dandy ” she suddenly stopped. 

“Pray, go on,” said Lawrence with his eyes on the 
ground, and as though all talk was now alike to him. 
“Why don’t you complete your description of the gen- 
tleman’s character?” 

As she remained dumb, he looked up and saw the 
reason. Kitty had taken to her heels, and was running 
down to the gate at the bottom of the orchard like a 
hare; but over the wall, within three feet of him, were 
the head and bust of Sir Charles Walden himself — a 
phenomenon caused by him being on horseback. He 
had been riding on the turf by the side of the road, 
which had dulled the noise of his approach, and how 
long he had been in his present position — with his hat 
off, in courtesy, doubtless, to the fair speaker — it was 
impossible to guess. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE FRANKNESS OF YOUTH. 

Forgive me for my intrusion, Mr. Lawrence, for I 
fear I intruded,” said the horseman with a smile 
and a bow; “but in taking a short cut to your esteemed 
grandfather’s house I have, as often happens with short 
cuts, gone a little astray. Perhaps you will kindly put 
me in the right way.” 

The graciousness of the tone, the polish of the speech, 
could not have been exceeded; the face of the speaker, 
too, beamed with politeness ; but there was a twinkle 
in his eye which to Lawrence was terrible, for it said, 
“All is known to me, my amorous youth.” 

To young people of the middle class, everybody 
who has title, especially in the country, has a certain 
importance ; but upon Lawrence Merridew (who was 
unusually exempt from such weaknesses) the lord-lieu- 
tenant of the county himself would have made little 
impression as an involuntary confidante compared with 
Sir Charles Walden — quite apart from the fact that he 
had just heard himself called “ a dandy” and other in- 
jurious epithets. The baronet was a very remarkable 
person, indeed, and one whose rank and wealth formed 
but a small portion of his eminence. Lawrence, 
though it is seemed the other knew even his Christian 
name, had met him but once on a public occasion — a 

15 


l6 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

village flower-show; but he knew all about him (or 
rather thought he knew), like every one else in West 
Cornwall. As learned, as Kitty had said (only with 
that unfortunate addition about his prayers), as the 
bishop of the diocese, more polite than any one who had 
ever been heard of except in books, and fitted equally 
to shine at a meeting of the Royal Society or in a ball- 
room, Sir Charles Walden was a recluse — though far, 
far indeed, from being an ascetic. He was said, in one 
sense — the county sense — to “live alone” at Hurlby 
Castle because he discouraged all visitors ; but scandal 
painted him as by no means without society of a certain 
kind, and as having more than one reason — indeed a 
whole seraglio of them — for seclusion. Nobody knew 
whether it was true or not, because nobody ever got the 
chance of knowing. 

He had been a great traveller, but for years had 
never left his splendid home — though he was under- 
stood to still maintain relations with the great world 
without, including the highest in the land. In what 
was, comparatively speaking, his youth, he had formed 
one of Her Majesty’s ministers — in a subordinate post, 
it is true, but filled with such success and completeness 
as promised the highest honors in the future. At the 
same time he had been one of the most prominent 
figures (though not, perhaps, the most popular, for his 
cynicism forbade it) in society — the idol of that courtly 
circle where wit shines the brighter for the atmosphere 
of dulness in which it shines, and where what is not 
conventional seems almost to resemble genius. A 
patron of the turf; as audacious at the gaming-table 
(it was said of him) as though he had the Bank of Eng- 
land at his back; a man of gallantry; a lover of the 


THE FRANKNESS OF YOUTH. 


17 


muse; a pamphleteer and something more in letters; 
in short, within limits, an Admirable Crichton. 

Then, suddenly, none knew for certain why, except, 
of course, that a woman was at the bottom of it, the 
gay world knew its persona grata no more. Sir Charles 
fled the town, and after years of travel buried himself 
alive in his distant and secluded castle. For the mo- 
ment his departure made him more talked about than 
ever, but in a few days his story paled and faded, as in 
a dissolving view, before some other London scandal, 
and, save in a few discreet boudoirs or snug smoking- 
rooms, was discussed no more. In the country, how- 
ever, it was different. His very naughtiness (if he had 
been naughty) was an attraction where gossip found so 
little to feed upon. Bluebeard himself, we read, was 
not unpopular among the county families till the actual 
revelation of his crimes ; and Sir Charles was known 
to be unmarried, which immensely added to his 
prestige. There were probably very few young ladies 
in Cornwall who would not have been prepared to put up 
with a little eccentricity, and to forgive a few vague 
peccadilloes, in exchange for thirty thousand a year and 
a castle. It could not, indeed, be said of Sir Charles, 
as in the ballad, that he was “ over young to marry 
yet,’' but he was “admirably preserved,” as if for that 
very purpose. “ A woman,” it is said, “ is as old as she 
looks.” If that test had been applied to Sir Charles as 
he now sat upright on his three-hundred-guinea nag, 
attired in a perfectly fitting riding suit, he was forty- 
five at most. If he had been a laboring man, in smock- 
frock and hob-nailed boots, with the usual amount of 
rheumatism about his bent shoulders, he would have 
been twenty years older. 


1 8 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

To Lawrence’s eyes this man looked like one who, 
save for the stroke of death, was above the reach of 
fate. He had everything at his command of which he 
himself had nothing — power, worship, wealth, accom- 
plishments, learning, knowledge of mankind — and he 
felt not a little complimented that so exalted a person- 
age should have addressed him by his Christian name. 
The recognition of a face, the recollection of a name, 
was one of the many gifts of Sir Charles, and which 
before now had stood him in good stead. He well un- 
derstood that the very humblest of human beings has a 
respect for his own identity, and that a slight is more 
resented than an insult ; for the latter may be given in 
the heat of passion, whereas the former can only arise 
from habitual contempt He had set his foot on many 
an enemy, but never made one by disdain. He was a 
cynic to his backbone, but he sneered only at prin- 
ciples, not at those who acted on them. His conduct 
was exactly the reverse of those who “do not speak 
evil of dignities, but of the people who fill them.” 
Such was his attitude to the world at large. But when 
he disliked any one his tongue was a flail. It was never 
said of him, however, as of many persons, that he was 
pleasant when pleased ; because (which is a very dif- 
ferent thing), he was always pleasant unless displeased. 
His charm of manner was inadequately described as 
capable of “ luring the bird from the bough : ” it could 
lure her from her very nest. He was said to have once 
extracted ;^5 for the poor from the Vicar of Hillsland’s 
pocket — a feat which could only be appreciated by 
those who knew that ecclesiastic. With the recollec- 
tion of all these things (but of that especially) in his 
mind, Lawrence vaulted lightly over the wall, and in 


THE FRANKNESS OF YOUTH. 


19 


answer to the other’s request to be put in the way to 
Hillsland Hall, replied cheerfully, “I am at your ser- 
vice, Sir Charles.” Many a true word is spoken in 
jest, and sometimes, as in this case, in mere courtesy. 

“ It is curious, considering how long I have been in 
this part of the country, that I have never but once 
been inside your grandfather’s house,” observed the 
baronet, as they moved on slowly together, his fiery but 
well-trained steed at once accommodating itself to the 
pace of the pedestrian. “ But I am as difficult to be 
drawn from my hermitage as a badger. It struck me 
as being a very imposing mansion, indeed.” 

“ It is big enough,” answered the young fellow, in a 
tone the indifference of which bordered on contempt. 

“And holds a good many people, I understand.” 

“Oh, yes, it has tenants enough.” The tone had now 
turned absolutely sarcastic, and seemed to imply the 
addition “ and to spare.” 

“ Why, you speak of it, my young friend, as if it was 
a warren,” exclaimed Sir Charles with great amuse- 
ment. 

“ It A a warren, though it looks like a lunatic-asylum,” 
returned the other doggedly. 

“Now this is really interesting,’' said the baronet, as 
if to himself. “ You are the very person of all others, 
my dear sir, I wanted to meet with — intelligent, observ- 
ant, and straightforward. A little bird has told me 
all that of you before, and more; but I suspected ex- 
aggeration.” 

“A little bird?” echoed the youth, with a puzzled 
look. 

“ Well, yes, if an angel, though unfeathered, may be 
so termed. It was Miss Ruth Stratton, with whom I 


20 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


had some charming conversation on the same day that I 
had the pleasure of making your own acquaintance.” 

“ It was fortunate for me that it was Cousin Ruth who 
gave you my character,” answered the young fellow; 
“ if it had been any other of my relations (save my dear 
mother) you would not feel much inclined to be civil 
to me.” 

“I don’t know that. I am in the habit of judging 
character for myself,” said Sir Charles, smiling. 
“ Moreover, when one man gives an ill report of another, 
it has to be considered what his opinion is worth. 
One may say to me: ‘So-and-so is an idle young fellow, 
who will never make sixpence, ’ for instance, and I may 
ask myself, but ‘How does he know?’ He may not be 
very diligent in his own vocation, and have lost a good 
many sixpences when he thought to make them him- 
self. ” 

“That was the parson,” observed Lawrence com- 
posedly. 

“^ell guessed; yes, it was the Rev. Arthur Grueby; 
why should I not say so, since so far from the informa- 
tion being given in confidence it was obviously for dis- 
tribution. But he is not a relation, I presume; only 
a candid friend of yours.” 

“ He is a friend of the family, at all events- — a stand- 
ing dish at the Hall. You will be sure to meet him at 
dinner to-night.” 

“ A charming prospect. But we were speaking of 
your relatives, ‘a little more than kin and less than 
kind,’ as you tell me; and, indeed, thanks to the lit- 
tle bird I know, of course I wish to hear no secrets; 
but if you will give me the carte dii pays — for these 
good folk are almost entire strangers to me, and you 


THE FRANKNESS OF YOUTH. 


2t 


and I are already friends, I feel — I should be infinitely 

obliged to you. Now there is your Uncle Robert ” 

“There is, unfortunately, yes,” interrupted Law- 
rence bitterly. 

“ So bad as that, is it? He struck me chiefly (like 
one better known in society) as being a very tall man; 
but he has doubtless other characteristics.” 

“ I would rather you discovered them for 3^ourself, 
sir. I cannot trust myself to speak of Robert Stratton 
as he deserves. ” The speaker’s voice trembled with 
emotion, the nature of which could be read in his flash- 
ing eyes and knitted brow. 

Sir Charles leaned forward in his saddle, and laid 
his hand gently on his cornpanion’s shoulder. 

“ Forgive me, Lawrence, for touching so tender a 
chord. It is one of the painful riddles of the world 
that sensitive natures should so often be at the mercy 
of those of coarser fibre ; in other words, of mere brutes. 
It happens, however, constantly to the female sex, and 
they give us a noble example of patience and endur- 
ance. That is a philosophical reflection, you may well 
observe, that can do no good to anybody. Let us 
rather hope that a time may come when you may have 
an opportunity of repaying this gentleman for his many 
obligations. Now, as to grandpapa, who is nominally, 
at least, my host. What ,am I likely to make of 
him?” 

“I know nothing about him,” replied Lawrence, in- 
differently, “ except that he wears a long white beard 
and a skull-cap, and looks like a magician. He is much 
too great a personage to trouble himself about my exis- 
tence. I have hardly seen him a dozen times in my 
life.” 


22 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


“What? Not seen your own grandfather, who lives 
under the same roof?” 

“ Not once for the last six months.” 

“ This is really delightful,” said Sir Charles with an 
air of exceeding relish. “I wouldn’t have missed it 
for worlds. By-the-bye, I hope I shall not miss your 
grandfather; it was the prospect of his society with 
which your uncle lured me to Hillsland.” 

“ Oh, he’ll seejou quick enough, no doubt. It is only 
that it is not worth his while to see people generally, 
but secludes himself in his own apartments. He was 
a very great man indeed in the East, it seems.” 

“Really? Not the Grand Llama, surely? He keeps 
himself to himself like that.” 

“ He was a commissioner, I believe,” said Lawrence. 

“ A conwiissionaire?'' 

“No, no,” answered the young fellow, laughing in 
spite of himself; it was difficult to be cheerless and de- 
spondent in Sir Charles’s company. “ He was the 
governor of some Indian province, and he can never 
forget it. He thinks that all of us ought to salaam and 
prostrate ourselves before him.” 

“ And do you?” 

“ Those who are admitted to his presence approach 
it, I believe, on all fours. That is one of the reasons 
which makes exile from it tolerable.” 

“ And has he no favorites?” 

“Yes, Ruth enjoys that distinction.” 

“It is not surprising; she is a charming young 
woman.” 

“Yes, but what is remarkable, she actually likes 
him. I say to her sometimes, you will be liking Uncle 
Robert next. ” 


THE FRANKNESS OF YOUTH. 


^3 


“ And what does she say to that?’' 

“Oh, then, she only laughs; because, of course, such 
a thing is impossible.” 

“ But there is a Mrs. Robert Stratton, is there not? 
Doesn’t she like her husband?” 

“ Adores him.” 

“ Come, that shows there must be some good in your 
uncle after all. ” 

“ Not at all. It only shows my aunt is a fool.” 

“Well upon my life, young gentleman, for can- 
dor ” 

“I beg your pardon, and her pardon,” put in Law- 
rence impulsively. “ I had no right to say anything of 
the kind. The notion of people liking Uncle Robert 
puts me out of all patience with them ; but his wife is 
delicate, and tender-hearted, and believes in her hus- 
band, who, I must say, takes a great deal of care of 
her, though doubtless for some wicked end.” 

“You are a good hater. Master Lawrence,” said Sir 
Charles, with a keen glance at his young companion. 

“ I have good cause to be,” replied the young fellow 
curtly. “ There is the Hall upon your left.” 


CHAPTER HI. 


FATHER AND SON. 

Whatever might be said against Hillsland Plall, it 
had certainly size to recommend it. No one could call 
it “a one-horse affair,” or even a pair-horse; it was a 
four-horse van — a caravan — of the first magnitude. As 
to its architecture, it had something to suit almost 
every taste, and a great deal that suited none. It was 
a palace with a veranda running round it, a hall of 
great splendor in its centre, paved with exquisite mosaic, 
and as many apartments, all more or less draughty, as 
an American hotel. When the shivering proprietor 
came home to it he found it utterly uninhabitable. 
Then another architect was called in, who, if he could 
have had his will, would not have left one stone upon 
another, but who was obliged to content himself with 
fronting the pile anew, so that it had the resemblance 
to a gigantic toy inclosed, for the purposes of travel, in 
a gothic box. But even that did not keep the draughts 
from being too much for the commissioner’s delicate 
frame. So that within his castle he had, as it were, 
built another for warmth and comfort — which after- 
ward turned out very useful for seclusion — a suite of 
rooms, guarded by double doors hung with heavy cur- 
tains, and paved with carpets on which a horse-soldier 
could have galloped without making the least noise. Of 
late years he had been confined almost entirely to these 

24 


FATHER AND SON. 


25 


apartments by age, infirmity, or, as some said, by sheer 
ill-temper at finding himself held by his neighbors in 
such small account 

When this satrap had taken the air in his own prov- 
ince a thousand dusky forms had prostrated themselves 
before him in token of their awe and submission; 
whereas at Hillsland, if some rustic pulled his forelock 
in acknowledgment of his presence, it was the most 
he could expect. Often as not Hodge only wiped his 
mouth with the back of his hand, and remarked to his 
fellow: “ That there’s the naybob,. Jim; him as used to 
ride a helephant. ” In former days a languid clap of his 
hands would be responded to “ with obedient start” by 
a score of servitors; now it only brought old Hassam, 
the only native who had followed his fortunes by his 
master’s side. On the other hand, it must be confessed 
that the ex-commissioner was very much looked up 
to ” (not perhaps in a moral sense, but as from low to 
higher, not to say highest) by his family, which was 
very numerous and of unusually varied stocks. His 
word was law to them when he condescended to give 
them a word, which was very seldom. What he had 
to say in the way of direction and command was said 
by deputy, through his only surviving son, Mr. Robert 
Stratton. 

This gentleman was his father’s right-hand man in 
every department of life — even his adviser, though he 
would never have been so foolish as to hint as much. 
The ex-commissioner was the Sultan, with the power of 
life and death, as it were, over all his belongings ; his 
son was but his Grand Vizier, only he played that part 
with such consummate skill that he did, in fact, rule his 
master. For example, he was his father’s almoner. 


26 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


Ever relative who had his home at the Hall w^as wholly 
dependent upon its lord and master, and none ever re- 
ceived their doles without Mr. Robert reminding them 
of the fact that it was the bread of dependence. He 
himself, though it was w^hispered he took good care 
that his own services were well remunerated, was 
under no obligation in this respect. He was not, in- 
deed, rich in his own right; and, to say truth, had at 
one time been in very low water indeed, but before the 
tide had left him absolutely bare and dry he had had 
the luck to marry an heiress. This had been the initial 
factor in the ex-commissioner’s respect for him. To 
find one of his family doing well for himself had filled 
him with astonishment and admiration ; and having 
once got his foot in the door that led to the old man’s 
confidence, Robert had pushed his way in. 

The two were closeted together in the ex-commis- 
sioner’s sanctum when their expected visitor and Law- 
rence Merridew came in sight of the Hall. It was a 
moderate-sized apartment, but furnished with much 
luxury and magnificence. On the ceiling’s lustrous 
blue were painted Eastern birds of gorgeous hue ; on 
the tall screens that fenced the occupant from every 
draught were depicted the sports or pursuits in which 
he had taken part. The walls were hung with shining 
spears, matchlocks inlaid with silver, and daggers, 
their handles rough with gold and bright with jewels. 
The air of the room was not only oppressively warm to 
persons in good health, but heavy with the scent of 
sandal-wood, of which most of the furniture was com- 
posed. 

The habitual tenant of this chamber was as alien- 
looking and foreign to our idea of what is English as 


FATHER AND SON. 


27 


its contents. He was an old man, as his silver hair 
and long white beard testified, but a still more con- 
vincing witness was the network of wrinkles that 
covered his sunburnt face from brow to chin. So fine 
and so numerous were they that they produced the 
effect of an exquisitely delicate and elaborate tattoo. 
But, under his still black brows, his dark eyes sparkled 
yet, and spoke of the vigor and vitality that were left 
in him. He was attired in a flowing dressing-gown of 
richest silk, which, as he lay propped up by cushions 
on an ebony eouch, reaehed to his scarlet slippers; 
on his head was a black velvet skull-cap, and between 
his bloodless lips the amber mouthpiece of a hookah 
which, with coil on coil, like a serpent shining in the 
sun, wound itself at last into a glass receptacle at his 
feet. Only when he spoke was the monotonous “ hub- 
ble-bubble” of the instrument intermitted; it seemed 
a part of its proprietor’s breathing apparatus. In front 
of his skull-cap sparkled a huge diamond; on his long 
brown Angers were rings of the same precious stones; 
he was immensely fat, and around his middle was a 
cord of tasselled silk that looked like a girdle of gold. 
Upon the whole, he looked more like some Paged than 
a man, and the more so from the strong contrast his 
apiDearance presented to that of his companion and only 
son. 

Robert Stratton was tall and somewhat spare, but 
very powerfully built. As a young man — and he was 
now but middle-aged, with brown hair still clustering 
over his forehead untinged with gray — he must have 
been handsome, and might have been so still but for a 
saturnine and almost sinister expression that marred 
his features. Even when he smiled, this did not wholly 


28 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON, 


disappear. It is a provision of nature that after the 
exercise of certain qualities for a long term of years 
they are to be read in a man’s face, for the warning or 
encouragement of his fellows. On the other hand, 
nature, careful of the tiger as of the lamb, helps him 
when the impression produced is bad to counteract their 
effect. Mr. Robert Stratton had, when he chose to use 
it, a melodious voice, which, coming from one of his 
stature, seemed itself an affability, and which with 
those who had not the ill-fortune to know” him often 
disarmed suspicion. Indeed, in one case, at least, 
where one would have thought he was well known — that 
of his wife — it altogether redeemed him. The soft 
nothings which he had indulged in before marriage 
were still whispered into the same ears, and believed 
by them to have a genuine significance. This gentle- 
ness of speech, however, became a weapon of offence 
more terrible than the loudest tongue ; and he made use 
of it habitually, even in anger. 

“ He is sure not to disappoint us, I suppose,” the old 
man was saying, with the frown that had ploughed 
those parallel lines on his wrinkled brow. 

“ I should hope, indeed, sir, he would not venture 
upon such a proceeding. It is true. Sir Charles is said 
to be the creature of caprice ; but he would surely think 
twice — and thrice — before treating a man of your posi- 
tion with such disrespect. Moreover, he expressed to 
me at the flower show the very great pleasure with 
which he looked forward to making your acquaintance. 
A man, he said, of unique attainments and quite ex- 
ceptional administrative capacity. T never leave my 
hermitage,’ he added, ‘as you know, to mingle in or- 
dinary society; but your father is no ordinary man. 


FATHER AND SON. 


29 


All this was delivered in a mellifluous tone, but so 
distinct that not a word was lost, though it was clear 
from the other’s putting a hollowed hand up to his ear 
that his hearing had somewhat failed him. At every 
complimentary observation the small cap nodded 
courteous approval, and the hubble-bubble seemed to 
breathe satisfaction. 

“It is something,’' the old gentleman replied, “to 
find one’s efforts in a distant land, and on behalf of 
another race, appreciated by such a student of mankind 
as Sir Charles Walden. You think, however, there 
may have been another attraction for him at Hillsland.” 

“A secondary one, yes; Ruth certainly seemed to 
take his fancy.” 

“ It is no wonder : her mother was very handsome ; 
and she has also a resemblance to poor Cyril. ” There 
was a silence for once ; the hubble-bubble ceased ; the 
amber mouthpiece of the nargile had dropped unno- 
ticed from the smoker’s lips. Robert Stratton’s hand 
went up to the smooth-shaven face to hide the sneer 
which every reference to his dead brother always 
evoked. 

He was jealous of him, though he had been so long 
in his grave — jealous of the place he still held in his 
father’s memory — jealous of the orphan daughter 
whose beauty, gentleness, and courage endeared her to 
all in that many-peopled house save him. 


CHAPTER IV. 


HOW THE DINNER PARTY .WAS ARRANGED. 

“Who was with you at the flower show beside Ruth?” 
inquired the ex-commissioner after a long pause. 

“Jane.” 

“ Umph !” The monosyllable was somehow not com- 
plimentary to Jane. The tone in which it was uttered 
seemed to imply that if there was another attraction at 
Hillsland Hall beside its proprietor and his grand- 
daughter, it was not likely to be Jane. She was, never- 
theless, an important personage there; next to her 
father and her brother Robert, the most important; 
and one who, since she managed and supervised the 
whole household, it was even more expedient to be on 
good terms with, if possible. But this was not easy 
to accomplish. 

The other daughters of the house, Mrs. Mei'ridew 
and Mrs. Lock, were both widows. They had at one 
time, of course, possessed husbands, which had not 
happened to their eldest sister, and that circumstance, 
some said, had soured her. But this explanation was 
only given by charitable persons, who had had no ex- 
perience of Jane before she became of a marriageable 
age. She had always been sour — a crab-apple to be- 
gin with, of which no amount of skill and culture could 
have made a sweet apple. 'There was nothing about 
her like an aj^ple; she was more like a pear — a pHckly 

30 


HOW THE DINNER PARTY WAS ARRANGED. 


31 


one — which, let it hang as long as it will, never grows 
mellow. She had been hanging for nearly forty years, 
and only grew harder and harder. 

“ It would have been better to let Mrs. Merridew 
chaperon Ruth," continued the old man, with irritation. 
“The child is never like herself; that is, at her best — 
with Jane. She should have been accompanied by 
some one for whom she has a liking." 

“ Lawrence was with her." 

“ I thought you said there was no one but you there?" 
exclaimed the old man angrily. “Why do you at- 
tempt to deceive me?" 

“ I should not be so foolish as to do that, sir, even if 
I were wicked enough," returned the other, smiling. 
“ When I said nobody, save us three, were present on 
the occasion to which you refer, I had forgotten Law- 
rence; who, in fact, /i* nobody. ” 

“ He is my grandson. " 

“But unworthy, as you yourself have said, sir," re- 
plied the other hastily, “to be remembered as such." 

“Remembered? Why do you say rememheredV' In 
his indignation the old gentleman turned his slippered 
feet off the sofa (as if they too had offended him) and 
sat up. “ You are thinking of my will." 

This was a subject, it was true, that was very often 
in Mr. Robert Stratton’s thoughts; but at that moment 
nothing was further from them. A more groundless 
accusation was never made. 

“You .shock me, sir; you positively shock me," he 
replied with, emotion. “If I used an inappropriate 
term you should remember that it is not every, one who 
has. the - gift of; expressing themselves in The fittest 
words, as you have. I am surely not to blame, con- 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


sidering the undutiful and thankless manner in which 
the boy has behaved to you, for forgetting your rela- 
tionship. Whenever I see him, I say to myself (think- 
ing of your goodness and the return it has met with), 
can that be your grandson?’* 

“ I don’t wonder at it, when you let him go about in 
clothes that would disgrace a scavenger. My grand- 
son? Why, he looks more like my cow-boy.” 

“But nobody ever sees him,” objected Mr. Robert, 
gently. 

“/see him — or, at least, I saw him three or four 
days ago, from this very window.” 

This argument was unanswerable. It would hav^e 
been very true, but very injudicious, to have observed 
that Mr. Stratton had seen his grandson a good many 
times in very indifferent apparel without the circum- 
stances attracting his attention. As he ignored his ex- 
istence, it was only reasonable to ^conclude that he 
ignored his clothes; but opposition was a thing that the 
ex-commissioner detested only less than any reference 
to his own demise. That unhappy word “remem- 
bered” had filled him with indignation, which curiously 
enough was taking the unexpected direction of a 
fashionable fit-out for Lawrence Merridew. 

“ Has he no other clothes than those disreputable rags 
in which he met my eye?” inquired the old gentleman, 
now almost foaming at the mouth. 

“Certainly, sir, he has his Sunday suit, which I will 
take care he wears till others have been provided for 
him. I need not say that when he went to the flower 
show he was suitably apparelled.” 

I hope so, indeed. Why, suppose Sir Charles was 
to see him as I saw him?” 


HOW THE DINNER PARTY WAS ARRANGED. 


33 


“That, sir,’- said Mr. Robert earnestly (it was the 
very moment in which the expected guest had arrived 
with Lawrence on the hill-top), “is to the last degree 
unlikely; but I will take steps to render it impos- 
sible.” 

“ All the preparations for Sir Charles’ reception 
have, I conclude, been made, Robert?” 

“ You may rest assured of that, sir. I do not think, 
so far as his comforts are concerned, that he will find 
anything to make him regret his visit.” 

“ The great point is, however, that he may be in- 
duced to repeat it. Whatever caprice he exhibits — 
and I am told he is full of caprices — must of course be 
indulged. His likes and dislikes should be very care- 
fully attended to.” 

“ I have made his character my study, sir, from the 
moment that your intelligence suggested to me the ad- 
vantage of his alliance. His aversion to society, for 
example, has caused me to invite — that is, in your 
name, of course — no one to meet him to-night except 
Grueby. ” 

“And why Grueby? I thought Sir Charles disliked 
parsons.” 

“ Well, you see, Grueby is not very much like a par- 
son ; indeed he is rather, so to speak, on the other side, 
and he knows about sporting matters, in which Sir 
Charles takes some interest. They are also already 
acquainted.” 

“ Do you think that an advantage^ — to Grueby?” in- 
quired the old gentleman cunningly. 

Mr. Robert’s huge frame shook with admiring laugh- 
ter. “Capital, capital!” he spluttered. “ How rare is 
the gift of humor ! What sagacity, too — what kno'wl- 
3 


34 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


edge of human life.” Then, with an effort after 
seriousness: “ Grueby, of course, does not recommend 
himself to you, sir; but there are natures, and high 
ones, too, that love to stoop. I think Sir Charles takes 
pleasure in the man.” 

“Well, well,” returned the other, much mollified, 
“so long as you don’t put me next to him. By-the- 
bye, how have you arranged that matter? I mean the 
dinner table? Sir Charles will be on my right hand, 
of course.” 

“ Most certainly — when the ladies have withdrawn.” 

At that pause there was a struggle in the hubble- 
bubble, as though it were choking. “ I have the list 
here,” continued Robert, pulling a paper from his 
pocket, and fixing his eyes on it with great earnestness, 
to avoid the glare of indignation with which he was 
well aware he was being regarded. “ Our guest, of 
course, must have a lady on either side of him. He 
will take my wife in to dinner.” 

“ I thought she was indisposed — too delicate and that 
sort of thing for dinner parties,” growled the old gen- 
tleman. 

“ That is so ; but on an occasion of this kind, in 
which, as she has been told, you feel a particular in- 
terest, she will not shrink from a little exertion. It was 
her own proposal. ” 

“I don’t believe a word of it,” cried the ex-com- 
missioner. “ Man proposes and disposes, too, in your 
case. It was her husband who put it into her head, 
I’ll warrant.” 

“ It was, indeed, I who mentioned to her the possi- 
ble importance of the entertainment,” observed Mr. 
Robert softly ; “ but she herself at once expressed her 


HOW THE DINNER PARTY WAS ARRANGED. 


35 


willingness to further its intention. ‘I am not so ill,’ 
she said, ‘but that I can do something. ’ ” 

“Humph; it won’t be much, then. Parties are not 
in her way. She’s an invalid.” 

If the ex-commissioner had said, “she is sure to get 
drunk,” his tone could not have expressed greater dis- 
satisfaction. “ Now, Mrs. Merridew has been used to 
society — the very best.” 

“ Let us hope so, since she paid such a price for it,” 
answered the other dryly. “ My wife, however, has not 
been unaccustomed to see quite as eminent persons as 
Sir Charles Walden at her father’s table. If he did 
not represent his borough in Parliament himself, he 
returned the man that did.” 

“ Shoddy, my dear Robert, shoddy. There is some- 
thing in social position that no money can buy. You 
may have lakhs and lakhs of rupees, but if you are un- 
covenanted, where are you? I have not, however, a 
word to say against Mrs. Robert if you can keep her off 
her symptoms and her remedies; but I will not have 
her emptying her medicine chest over any guest of 
mine. Well, on the other side of Sir Charles you will 
put Ruth, of course.” 

“ Indeed, sir, I think that would be hardly judicious. 
She is very young, and has no right to any such 
position.” 

“What — my grand-daughter, and the daughter of my 
eldest son — no right? Then I should like to see the 
girl who had rights.” 

“ I was merely referring to her tender years, sir. It 
is not usual — at least in this country, where infant 
marriages are discouraged — to place the guest of the 
evening next a young unmarried girl. It would also 


36 


A MODERN DU K \VHI I'TINOTON. 


have an undesirable significance. Mrs. Merridew is, 
as you were observing, in every way qualified to be Sir 
Charles’s left-hand neighbor.” 

“Well, well, arrange it as you please. We shall be 
but a small party, and all pretty close together. With 
Jane, I make eight of us at present. Is that right?” 

“ Quite right, sir. One less than the Muses is, I be- 
lieve, the orthodox prescription for a dinner party. 
With Aunt Jerry we should be one too many, and for 
other reasons she had better be out of it.” 

“Aunt Jerry is certainly not much like a muse,” 
admitted the ex-commissioner. 

“Unless it is the Muse of Ancient History,” smiled 
Mr. Robert ; “ she seems to remember nothing that did 
not happen thirty years ago.” 

“Things were better worth remembering then than 
they are now,” observed the other sententiously. Mr. 
Robert looked up in surprise; it was rarely indeed 
that his father ever gave way to sentiment. “ I can re- 
call Aunt Jerry, as you call her,” he went on, with a. 
look that seemed to search the past,., “as pretty as 
Ruth. Lock, too, was a handsome young fellow, and 
when he married her was counted one of the richest 
men in the county.” 

“He might have kept his money, too,” observed 
Robert, with a keen glance of significance at his father, 
“but for his thinking that ‘Tom Tiddler’s Ground’ was 
underground instead of above it.” 

“ There are mines and mines,” observed the old gen- 
tleman, coolly, “ and even in lead mines there are 
chances of recovery. The Common Wheal, for ex- 
ample, was said to be exhausted in Lock’s time, and 
now it bids fair to head the market. He was an un- 


HOW THE DINNER PARTY WAS ARRANGED. 


37 


fortunate fellow in ev^ery thing, except his marriage, 
was Lock.'* 

“And that was very unfortunate to remarked 
Mr. Robert, acidly. “ I can imagine a man who has 
little to lose of his own taking great risks, but for a 
man of means to run the chance of beggary in the 
hopes of getting a little richer is in my opinion the 
act of a madman.’' 

“ That sounds very well, and would look very nice 
in a copy-book, Robert. It is a pity you have no 
children to profit by your moral reflections. By-the- 
bye, there is the boy, Lawrence; what is to be done 
with him to-night?” 

“ He will dine with Aunt Jerry in her own apart- 
ments, and so be kept out of the way.” 


CHAPTER V. 


LAWRENCE AND HIS RELATIVES. 

‘‘Yonder is the carriage, with my rascal Thornton 
behind it,” exclaimed Sir Charles, as Lawrence and he 
looked down on the Hall from the hill-top. “Your 
people will be wondering why I have not already made 
my appearance, so, with your good leave and many 
thanks for your guidance, we will part company for the 
present. It is just as well, perhaps, that you and I 
should not be known as friends.” 

It was an act of consideration — and something more 
— that his companion thoroughly appreciated, for 
thereby Sir Charles not only showed that he understood 
his young friend’s position in the household, but de- 
clared himself his ally. Where he was mistaken, as 
Lawrence bitterly reflected, was in his expectation that 
they should soon meet again — as, for instance, at the 
dinner table. He knew, as well as though he had been 
present at the interview then going on between his 
grandfather and his Uncle Robert, that he would not 
be one of the guests. Though twenty years of age, and 
much better fitted for companionship than any one 
within ten miles of Hillsland, Lawrence generally 
dined early, like a child, and had supper by himself, 
or sometimes a “meat tea” with Aunt Jenny. This 
was not for economy, or convenience, but simply an 
agreement of Uncle Robert’s designed for the humilia- 

38 


LAWRENCE AND HiS RELATIVES. 


39 


tion of the boy. It failed in its intent, for Lawrence 
much preferred to take his evening meal, as he would 
have preferred to take any other, apart from his enemy, 
and he had so much else (and worse) to resent in his 
kinsman’s conduct toward him that this slight seemed 
but a flea-bite. * 

How a hatred between two human beings first begins 
(on one side )it is sometimes difficult to discover; there 
are such layers and layers of it as time goes on that 
what cast the original shade — though it was at the 
time distinct enough — becomes undistinguishable. 
We talk of death ending such dislikes, and it may be 
so in the case of the one who is first to go, for ‘‘ in the 
grave,” we are told, “there is no remembrance.” But 
it is not so in that of the other. In some cases, and 
subject to religious influence, he may forgive, or think 
that he forgives; but even if he would, he cannot for- 
get. It is not in human nature. There had probably 
never been a time when Robert Stratton had not dis- 
liked his nephew, Lawrence Merridew. His father 
had been a Guardsman, and Robert’s social superior. 
For a few years he had been looked up to as a feather 
in the cap of the family. They had not grudged him 
the money he took out of it as his wife’s dower, be- 
cause they thought they would have received its equiv- 
alent in social consideration. But Colonel Merridew, 
who drove four-in-hand and was an authority at White’s 
on most subjects, and whose movements were recorded 
in the “ Fashionable Intelligence” as a matter of posi^ 
tive interest, was a very different person from that 
gallant officer after he had succumbed to an attack of 
chicken hazard (though it had lasted but ten hours), 
and not only lost his whole fortune (which, indeed, 


40 


A MODERN DICK. WHITTINCri’ON. 


thanks to previous inroads of the same complaint, would 
have been a small matter) but that of his wife also. 

When he died of a fever, some years afterward, in 
by no means well furnished lodgings, he left little be- 
hind him, save Lawrence, who, though a comfort to 
his mother, was hardly looked upon at Hillsland Hall 
as an acquisition. His being so comely, and for his 
age so bright and intelligent, did not count for much 
in his favor. Such gifts were, indeed, absolutely 
against him with his uncle — who had no share in them 
— and with sour Aunt Jape. If he had been a Strat- 
ton, they might have attracted his grandfather; as, in- 
deed, though she was of the wrong sex, they did in 
Ruth’s case. If his eldest son, though nothing to boast 
about, but rather to the contrary, had left a son and 
heir, things might have been different with the ex- 
commissioner in his old age. 

Robert, who never had his affection, though he had 
now (by no means without hard striving) his ear and 
trust, was childless: a circumstance which caused him 
the bitterest disappointment. Perhaps one of the 
reasons why he hated Lawrence was because, though 
only in the female line, he was the sole male of his 
generation in the family. Jealousy of this kind is as 
common in ordinary households as in those of the blood 
royal. 

Robert had stood between the lad and his grand- 
father’s favor from the first, and had so contrived to 
keep him out of the old man’s presence that, as we 
have seen, it took some extraordinary incident to re- 
mind him even of his grandson’s existence; and with 
every wrong that he 'did the boy he hated him more 
and more. Now that Lawrence had grown up, actual 


LAWRENCE AND HIS RELA'MVES. 4T 

ill-usage had become dangerous, for, though the uncle 
had thews and sinews far superior to those of his junior, 
the latter would by no means have submitted to it, but 
would have used any weapon that came handy; and, 
moreover, there would have been the public scandal. 
In later years, therefore. Uncle Robert, with the ex- 
ception of such small personal humiliations as exclud- 
ing him from the late dinner-party, had confined 
himself to striking at Lawrence through his mother — a 
mode of attack which involved the minimum of danger 
while inflicting the maximum of pain. 

Mrs. Merridew, though far from a wise woman, as 
her marriage had shown, had been at one time as en- 
gaging in manners as she was attractive in person. To 
say that there had been no one in the family who could 
vie with her in high spirits and conversation, was no 
high compliment, for they were a dull lot; but she had 
been the light, not only of the Hall, but of the neigh- 
borhood. Now all her gayety had fled, or rather what 
remained of it had left her — for her nature was elastic, 
and could have borne anything but the dead weight of 
contempt and neglect that had been imposed upon it — 
had died out, spark after spark. The one joy left her 
in life was her Lorry ; and Lawrence, she was told, was 
worthless and a ne’er-do-well. Her sister. Miss Jane, 
had detected this fact even earlier than her brother 
Robert, and neither of them hesitated to communicate 
to her the discovery. 

If he was so clever, they said, how was it that he 
had not distinguished himself at the school to which 
his grandfather had so generously sent him? It was 
not an expensive school, but it was quite true that, 
but for the ex-commissioner’s aid, Mrs. Merridew 


42 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


would have found difficulty in giving the lad an educa- 
tion at all. Why had he not got a scholarship, and 
gone to college, and maintained himself like other 
clever boys, instead of being a burden on his mother? 
She did not feel him to be a burden — far from it; but 
the epithet stung her to the quick, as it was meant to 
do. She had no choice but to leave the lad and his 
future in their cruel hands. It had finally been decided 
that in a few months Lawrence was to go out to Singa- 
pore, where his grandfather’s influence had obtained 
for him a clerkship in some commercial firm. It was 
an employment far from suitable to him, but “ beggars 
must not be choosers,” as Miss Jane had put it with 
her usual frankness. 

In that great house there were several persons who 
pitied his lot, and the misery which his exile would en- 
tail upon his mother; but they were powerless to avert 
it. All the servants adored Master Lorry, who had a 
smile and a kind word for everybody ; and they liked 
him none the less because they knew he was no 
favorite with Uncle Robert and Aunt Jane. Perhaps 
his most powerful ally was Mrs. Robert, who had 
actually expressed an opinion that the lad was harshly 
treated ; but her husband had only smiled and patted 
her cheek, and said that she was too gentle and kind 
for this world, and did not know what was good for 
those cast in a rougher mould. As for fretting about 
the young fellow going so far away, as she seemed 
almost inclined to do, he was obliged to remind her 
that the doctors had all warned her against fretting. 
The recollection of this circumstance, and the convic- 
tion of her husband’s solicitude about her, had reduced 
her sympathies for her sister-in-law and her child 


LAWRENCE AND HIS RELATIVES. 


43 


within very reasonable limits. She was an invalid, as 
the master of the house had termed her, of a very 
inoffensive but pronounced kind. The state of her 
own constitution was the paramount consideration with 
her, and though she was only ‘‘delicate,” and seldom 
actually ill, she would perhaps have hardly welcomed 
a state of rude health, even had it been within her 
reach. She was accustomed to a hothouse existence, 
and preferred the care and petting it procured her to 
being let alone and the open air. 

Aunt Jerry, too, had a tenderness for Lawrence, 
which was, however, of little use to him, and was set 
dov/n by her more able-minded relatives as a proof of 
her imbecility. 

If he could be said to have a champion, it was Ruth, 
though she had learnt by experience to conceal, for his 
own sake, the affection with which she had regarded him. 
When they were children together she had often flamed 
up in generous indignation at the harshness with which 
the boy was treated. Only a year or two ago, indeed, 
she had spoken some very bitter words to her uncle on 
the subject, which had done the object of her compas- 
sion far more harm than good; but she had now 
schooled herself to hold her tongue about him, though 
at times she was near biting it through in keeping that 
enforced silence. 

The knowledge of the girl’s sympathy, though he 
knew but the tenth part of it, was very welcome to the 
young fellow; and his mother’s love, though she never 
dapd to reveal it save when they were alone, compen- 
sated him for mych. But what made life at the Hall 
less intolerable to him, and the thoughts of his ap- 
proaching exile more hateful than aught else, was the 


44 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

neighborhood of Kate Salesby. Only one person, save 
herself, was cognizant of this fact — and it was not Mrs. 
Merridew. That the lad should think of falling in love 
was too monstrous a piece of impertinence to be sus- 
pected by the higher powers at the Hall. That he had 
objects of his own, in literature and the like, was un- 
known to them, and would not have been understood 
if it had been known. At the best it would only have 
excited some scornful merriment. 

It has been cynically observed that the worm will 
not turn if you tread upon him hard enough, but this 
depends upon the nature of the worm. No one in pos- 
session of the facts could accuse Uncle Robert and 
Aunt Jane of too much tenderness in this respect; 
they had not treated their worm, as Izaak Walton did, 
“ as if they loved him they had put their heels on 
him so hard, and with such persistency, that it was a 
wonder that there was even a wriggle left in him 
But there 7ms a wriggle. The cause of this, which they 
were far indeed from suspecting, was that, much as 
their victim hated them, he despised them more. It 
was curious, but, though subject to such a persistent 
persecution as might well have given their victim a 
conviction of their superiority, Lawrence Merridew 
knew himself to be head and shoulders above both of 
them, and was conscious of a sense of power which, 
though ludicrous enough under the circumstances, 
enabled him to suffer and still be strong. For one of 
his years he had what is termed “the literary gift ” in 
a marked degree, and what sometimes accompanies it. 
a confidence in himself, which, though often confounded 
with conceit — and indeed is called^' confounded conceit” 
— is something quite different from it. 


LAWRENCE AND HIS RELATIVES. 


45 


The worst disadvantage at which Lawrence Merridew 
was placed was that hitherto he had no one to sym- 
pathize with his literary aspirations. The two who 
loved him were unable to do so, and, perceiving this, 
he had shrunk from seeking sympathy. Help was com- 
ing to him in this matter, though as yet he knew it not, 
and in other matters also, though these too were beyond 
his ken. He felt, indeed, that Sir Charles Walden was 
friendly inclined toward him; but he little guessed 
how favorable was the impression that his looks and 
manners, and especially the reckless frankness with 
which he had spoken of his own position, had made 
upon his new acquaintance, 


CHAPTER VI. 


• INTRODUCTION. 

Even to the eyes of its present visitor, well accus- 
tomed to the dwellings of the great, everything at 
Hillsland Hall was upon a large scale, and astonished 
him by its unnecessary magnitude. “ It is like the 
Pyramids, ” was the baronet’s mental reflection : “ much 
too big for burying people in, even though, as in this 
case, they are alive.” The mansion, indeed, was any- 
thing but homelike, and suggested a mausoleum, while 
its tenants struck him as being possessed of very little 
vitality. The hall was enormous, and could have held 
half the county. The drawing-room was of similar 
dimensions to that of a London club, but very dift'er- 
ently furnished. Besides being crowded with every 
description of arm-chair and ottoman, it was full of 
Eastern knick-knacks, inlaid tables, screens of marvel- 
lous delicacy, and boxes of exquisite workmanship, 
from which emanated odors that made you faint. 
There were temples of ivory, not much smaller than 
their originals, and ivory chessmen almost the size of 
real men. While Sir Charles was regarding these 
things with approving looks, he was saying to himself: 

“ It looks like a blessed bazaar in which everything is 
for sale, and for not one single article would I give six- 
pence except for these chessmen.” 

His host^ in evening apparel, but still with his black 
' " .46 


INTRODUCTION. 


47 


cap on, was explaining how he had won the men from 
the Rajah of Radenpoor at the game itself. 

And what did you stake on your side?” 

“I think it was ten thousand rupees,” returned the 
old gentleman loftily. “The Rajah was annoyed, of 
course, but as he bften played at chess with real men, 
on the squares of his audience chamber, and had plenty 
of them, I felt that I was not depriving him of his 
amusement.” 

Sir Charles regarded his host with the admiration 
due to a first-class liar. “ It must have been a very 
interesting contest,” he murmured. 

“ Life in India is interesting to those who deal with 
it on a large scale,” returned the ex-commissioner. 
“Things in England appear dwarfed by comparison.” 

Here Miss Jane entered the room. She was almost 
as tall, though much more spare, than her brother 
Robert. She had a habit of sniffing disapproval at 
everything, and was unable to refrain from doing so 
now at Sir Charles; but he fortunately set it down to 
the sandal-wood and other scents with which the at- 
mosphere was laden. He had already been introduced 
to her, but not in her evening costume, which accentu- 
ated what was amiss with .her — as it always does with 
scraggy women. She looked like a lay figure such as 
artists use — very angular and awkward ; but her face, 
notwithstanding her thin lips and eyes of pale blue, had 
plenty of unpleasant expression in it. 

“Your father has been showing me his beautiful 
chessmen,” said Sir Charles; “they fill me with envy.” 

“ I suppose they are very fine,” she replied. “Con- 
sidering what they cost they ought to be.’' 

The situation was a little embarrassing, till the ex- 


48 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


commissioner explained in a low tone and with a sig- 
nificant smile that the true history of the transaction 
had been unrevealed to his offspring lest they should 
imagine their parent had had gambling proclivities. 

“As a matter of fact,“ he said, “though it was not 
worth while to trouble you with it, the whole affair had 
a diplomatic origin. In dealing with native princes — 
But here is Ruth ; you remember meeting my grand- 
daughter at the bazaar the other day.“ 

“ Having once seen Miss Ruth Stratton, it is not 
likely that one should forget her/' said Sir Charles, 
with a grave bow. The compliment was robbed of its 
artificiality by the earnest and respectful tone in which 
it was pronounced ; and indeed it was a statement that did 
not admit of cavil. It was difficult to imagine a more 
beautiful creature than the young girl whose hand he 
just touched with his own as though it had been some- 
thing sacred. Young as she was, she was both tall and 
shapely; her eyes like the dark-blue violet; her hair 
of that blue-black tinge that is almost always coarse, but 
which in her case was finer than silk ; her complexion 
dark yet delicate; her movements graceful as the fawn. 
But the chief charm of her lay in the expression of her 
thoughtful face. This was not by any means of that 
emotional kind, of which we say “ it is the index of the 
soul." It might perhaps have been so at one time; but 
few as were her years she had had no little experience 
of life, and she did not wear her heart upon her sleeve. 

Sir Charles’s compliment did not embarrass her in the 
least. She smiled sweetly indeed, for she could not 
smile otherwise ; but it was a smile of the merest ac- 
knowledgment. It was a pretty speech enough, she 
seemed to be thinking to herself, but absolutely of no 


INTRODUCTION. 


49 


value. The speaker, it was clear, had not advanced 
himself in her regard by uttering it. 

On every other member of the household he had 
marked the impression produced by his own greatness. 
Even the lord high commissioner (as he had already 
termed him in his own mind) had been careful to let 
him see that he felt the honor of his visit. Mr. 
Robert’s manner of receiving him had been fulsome. 
Miss Jane had shown her teeth, in a way altogether 
unusual with her, in effusive welcome. But Ruth treated 
him exactly like every other gentleman whom she had 
seen but once, save for the slight soup^on of familiarity 
that was due to a guest. She talked of the bazaar at 
which they had met, of its people and its prices, with a 
certain insistence of reminiscence, as though to remind 
him that that was the only common ground between 
them. Many men in his place would have credited her 
with an affectation of simplicity; but this man set her 
manner down to its true cause at once. Her mind was 
too full of really serious raatters — only too probably, 
unpleasant ones — to take much heed of him or of what 
he said. 

This was not complimentary, of course, but there were 
plenty of compliihents for him elsewhere. Mr. Robert 
presently entered the room with his wife leaning on 
his arm, and a little “ got up” speech of how for this 
occasion only she had thrown off her invalid habits to 
bid him welcome to Hillsland Hall. She was a washed- 
out little woman, with that sort of die-away air that is 
promising to nobody but a lady’s doctor. Sir Charles, 
who had a talent for ticketing ” people — assigning 
them to the genus to which they belonged — perceived 
in her at once the professional invalid. “ In the day- 


5© A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

time/' he reflected, “that woman will have a red nose." 
And his diagnosis was correct. In five minutes she 
and the guest of the evening were discussing remedies 
for neuralgia with an earnestness little short of enthu- 
siasm. 

This conduct on Sir Charles’s part was very pleasing 
to Mr. Robert, though he had his doubts of its genuine- 
ness, inasmuch as it corroborated the view he had taken 
of his wife’s social attractions. What especially grati- 
fied him was that the baronet’s manner on being intro- 
duced to Mrs. Merridew, though perfectly courteous, 
had certainly less warmth in it, as though to mark his 
sense of Mrs. Robert being mistress of the house. This 
was even a greater victory than Robert imagined, for 
not only was the widow his wife’s superior in appear- 
ance and address, but her sad, sweet face was beaming 
with a gentle gratitude to the baronet for the interest 
which, as she had heard a few hours ago, he had mani- 
fested in her son. He recognized it at once, but without 
the least acknowledgment of it in tone or feature ; and 
the gracious coldness with which he received her ex- 
tinguished in a moment the little glimmer of hope she 
had entertained of her poor Lorry having found a 
friend. 

It was from his mother that the lad had inherited his 
good looks, though not his intelligence — nor even that 
air of high breeding which clung to him in spite of 
his patched clothes. She was still a very handsome 
woman, but “sickled o’er with a pale cast of thought" 
that did not, as it often does, enhance her comeliness. 
It was no intellectual struggle, but the hopeless contest 
with circumstance that had ploughed those lines of care 
upon her kindly face. She had been “ forgiven " by 


INTRODUCTION. 


51 


her family for the unfortunate marriage which they had 
done their best to promote, but only to find herself in 
a state of slavery. Her father was indifferent to her; 
her brother and sister Jane were her tyrants; and her 
boy was friendless and penniless. Lawrence had told 
her of their visitor’s good will toward him ; and she had 
looked for some sign from this rich and powerful man 
to assure her of the interest he felt in Lorry. But no 
sign was shown. 

He exhibited rather more than less of courtesy in his 
reception of the Rev. Arthur Grueby than in her own 
case. The Vicar of Hillsland was known to him, but 
such knowledge could hardly have been a passport to 
his favor; a civil recognition was the most he could 
have been led to expect, whereas Sir Charles’s manner 
was distinctly gracious. The man was a clergyman 
indeed, but far from a credit to his cloth. On one oc- 
casion the parish had been deprived of his spiritual 
services for the space of three years, 'the living during 
that period, as Sir Charles himself was said to have 
remarked, being ‘‘not only sequestered but, seques- 
trated.” He knew all about Mr. Grueby, and to say 
truth, was by no means flattered at finding him his 
fellow-guest. Something of this, as we know, his host 
had foreseen, though, from his long absence abroad, he 
knew much less of Mr. Grueby than his neighbors; but 
Mr. Robert had a large charity for sinners who were 
of use to him, and he had found the vicar useful in 
many ways. 

It was probable that Mr Robert conceived Sir Charles 
to be in too high a position to care what guests were 
asked to meet him; or even that since he had got into 
scrapes himself he might have a fellow-feeling for an- 


52 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

Other in the like position ; but in that case he had made 
a great mistake. Sir Charles, as we know, had much 
better reasons for feeling unfavorably disposed toward 
Mr. Robert Stratton, but it is doubtful whether any -of 
these was so strong and vigorous as that which seized 
him when he found that he had been asked to Hillsland 
Hall to meet the Rev. Arthur Grueby. 


CHAPTER VII. 


AT THE DINNER TABLE. 

The dining-room at Hillsland Hall was on the same 
gigantic scale as the drawing-room with which it com- 
municated — or rather was cut off from — by two pairs of 
folding doors. It was plainly furnished, but boasted 
of a horse-shoe table, such as is now seldom seen out of 
a college combination-room. Whatever the season, a 
fire was always burning in the grate when the host 
was present, and a pleasant light, through the glass 
screen in front of it, it cast upon the glass and silver. 

The baronet, who had taken Mrs. Robert into dinner, 
was for some time exceedingly attentive to her. He 
found himself, not without some amusement, discussing 
with her homoeopathy and the massage system, with 
an occasional excursion into mesmerism. She narrated 
her symptoms with much frankness, and as a remedy 
for some imaginary disorders which, not to be behind- 
hand with his fair but frail companion, he invented on 
the spur of the moment, she earnestly recommended 
him to try electricity. On his part, he gravely suggested 
mud baths, the consideration of which in connection 
with the soil of the neighborhood took such strong 
possession of her mind, always in search of new reme- 
dial agents, that he felt he could leave her for the 
present to the contemplation of it. Then he addressed 

53 


54 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


himself, in a more cheerful but lower tone, to his other 
neighbor. 

“ How is it that my young friend Lawrence is not with 
us to-night?” 

Mrs. Merridew, as he had not failed to notice, had 
hardly touched bit or sup, and it was fortunate per- 
haps that knife and fork were not in her hands when 
he addressed her, or they might have fallen from them, 
so moved was she by that simple question. 

“He is not here; he is never here,” she answered 
hurriedly. “ He is not permitted to mingle with his — ” 
she hesitated for a moment for a word, and then with a 
little touch of scorn altogether foreign to her charac- 
ter, added, “his betters.” 

“ Indeed?” observed Sir Charles, with an air of curi- 
osity. “ Is it as regards moral character, or personal 
appearance, or charm of manner, that he is considered 
the inferior of our friend the divine, yonder?” 

“ Do you mean the vicar?” asked the widow with 
simplicity. 

“Well, the word, I must confess, did not describe 
him with accuracy; yes, I meant Grueby. He is a cler- 
gyman, you know. ” 

“ He is not very good friends with my poor Law- 
rence,” said Mrs. Merridew, whose mind was wont to 
occupy itself with one subject at a time, and lost it- 
self if led astray from it. “ His position gives him 
opportunities ” 

“ Preaches against him from the pulpit, does he?” 
interrupted Sir Charles, laughing softly. 

“ Well, he did say something once, at Robert's insti- 
gation, about Lawrence’s opinions. It seemed hard 
that one so young should be held up as it were to the 


AT THE DINNER TABLE. 


55 


disapproval of a whole congregation. Mr. Percy, of 
Binstead, thinks quite differently of Lorry.” 

“Well, well, Percy is a Christian and a gentleman, 
and we must make allowances for those who are 
neither,” returned the baronet with charitable unction. 
“ Perhaps you do not know, Mrs. Merridew, that your 
boy’s father and I were in the same regiment together?” 

“ I knew it very well. Sir Charles ; but since you didn’t 

allude to it, it was not for me ” she stopped, then 

added in broken tones, “ All those days are past and 
gone.’ 

It was easy to see that they were. There had been 
a time, her neighbor remembered, when Colonel Mer- 
ridew, of the Guards, was a personage in London, and 
the worn and weary, but still comely, woman beside 
him a toast. The colonel had soon come to the end of 
his tether — which, as has been said, had included his 
wife’s money as well as his own; but his downward 
career had been brilliant as that of a comet. 

“ There is something in your boy that reminds me of 
his father,” said Sir Charles musingly, and purposely 
ignoring his companion’s emotion; “he is frank and 
high-spirited, and even under very serious difficulties 
keeps his light heart.” 

“And then Lorry is so clever,” murmured the widow 
earnestly. “ He writes such beautiful poetry, and sto- 
ries, and things.” For the moment, in her maternal 
enthusiasm she had forgotten she was a domestic nobody 
talking of a penniless boy. 

“What is Mrs. Merridew so eloquent about. Sir 
Charles, ” inquired Mrs. Robert in her thin invalid tone, 
with a squeeze of lemon in it. “ One cannot get in a 
word edgeways. ” 


56 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


The widow turned pale with terror. If Sir Charles 
should reveal the subject of their conversation, she was 
lost indeed. 

“I am afraid it was my fault, Mrs. Robert,” he re- 
plied, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I was so in- 
discreet as to venture on the topic of old times.” 

‘‘ And that, no doubt, unsealed the fountain of remin- 
iscence, ” she answered laughing. “ Poor Mrs. Merridew 
is a little weak on that subject, and those who know her 
are careful to avoid it.” 

‘‘ She has a son, has she not?” inquired vSir Charles, 
indifferently. 

” Oh, yes. It is wonderful she has not talked to you 
about him. He lives with us, you know, though he is 
soon going to Seringapatam — no, it is Singapore, by-the- 
bye — where his grandfather has obtained him a situa- 
tion. ” 

“ Then he is almost grown up, I suppose — indeed, I 
now recollect having seen him at the bazaar the other 
day.” 

“ It is very good of you to remember him. I really 
know nothing against him ; but I am afraid — at least 
my husband tells me he has no great hopes of him.” 

“A mauvais sujetT' 

“I should not like to say that; but he has thrown 
away his opportunities at school and so on.” 

‘‘ Perhaps the poor boy is stupid.” 

“ No; he is not exactly that; he has even talents of a 
certain kind, I believe. But — if you are wondering that 
you do not see him here ” 

” Not at all,” interrupted wSir Charles. “ I feel sure 
there must be some good reason.” 

“ Well, Robert thinks — and he generally knows best. 


AT THE DINNER I' A BEE. 


57 


I find — that Lawrence — his name is Lawrence — is not 
quite — I dare hardly whisper it, lest Mrs. M., poor 
thing, should hear me, and we know what a mother 
always thinks of her boy ” 

Sir Charles nodded adhesion. His maternal instincts 
were at least as strong, he said to himself, as Mrs. 
Robert’s. 

“ Well, Robert doesn’t think the boy quite gentleman- 
like.” 

“Dear, dear.” Sir Charles clucked regret with his 
tongue, an operation which combined with the thought 
of Robert Stratton being a judge of gentlemanliness 
almost suffocated him. “That’s bad; because his 
father was certainly one.” 

“So I have heard,” said Mrs. Robert, frigidly; “but 
he was also a gambler.” 

“ Does Lawrence gamble?” 

“ Well, he has nothing to gamble with,'' returned the 
lady naively; “but Robert says he is reckless.” 

“ I am sorry,” said Sir Charles gravely. “I should 
like to have seen him, for the sake of old times; but I 
don’t'want to be corrupted.” 

“Oh, he won’t do that. I’m sure,” she answered en- 
couragingly. “ The poor lad is nobody’s enemy but his 
own. If you would really like to see something of him. 
I’ll speak to Robert.” 

“Thanks. Not that it much matters. You are not 
going, I do hope.” 

“Yes, Robert has coughed; we have our little 
signals. His father wants to smoke. You will not 
forget the electric belt.” 

“ No, no, nor you the mud baths. The subject is at 
all events worth inquiry. I should think Mr. Grueby 


58 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

would know about them — I mean as to the soil of the 
parish.” 

The two parted on the best of terms. Mrs. Robert, 
who had intended to go to bed after dinner utterly ex- 
hausted by her “ effort” to entertain the guest of the 
evening, thought she might even see him again in the 
drawing-room. She had “entertained” him exceed- 
ingly. 

She had also afforded him a character study of some 
interest. He had come to the conclusion — and it was a 
just one — that she was much more weak than wicked. 
She had certainly exhibited a little jealousy of Mrs. 
Merridew, but that lady had a son whereas she was 
childless. Nor did her account of Lawrence seem the 
result of any personal malevolence. She had evidently 
no knowledge of the young fellow save what was im- 
parted to her by her husband, of whom she had unwit- 
tingly given even a worse impression to her late neigh- 
bor than he had formed before. The time, however, 
had come, now the ladies had withdrawn, when it was 
necessary to show himself friendly to that gentleman, 
as well as to his host and fellow-guest. It was not a 
difficult operation, for Sir Charles Walden could be all 
things to all men, and would have been equally at 
home in the House of Convocation or in a thieves* 
kitchen. It was a very disagreeable one, though, for, 
notwithstanding his many-sidedness, he was one of the 
most fastidious of men. Moreover, if you had asked 
him why he was about to take any pains in such a 
matter, he would have been puzzled to answer the 
question. At his age he could hardly be termed “ a 
creature of impulse,” but his character remained as 
much a riddle to himself as to other people. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


WHEN THE LADIES HAD WITHDRAWN. 

I HOPE, Sir Charles, you have found your dinner to 
your liking, ” observed his host when the cloth had been 
removed, revealing the depths of the mahogany table 
and the curved line of a little railway on which the 
decanters ran on silver wheels. “We rather pride our- 
selves on our curries. ” 

“Curries, sir!” exclaimed the baronet enthusiasti- 
cally, “ the banquet was worthy of a Beauvilliers. You 
pro-consuls of the present day, it seems, rival those of 
old Rome in the splendor of your entertainments.” 

The ex-commissioner smiled liked one conscious of 
merit, but who has no objection to its being recognized. 

Mr. Robert endeavored to look like a prince of 
the blood when the queen’s health is being drunk. 
Though not immediately concerned in the matter, it 
reflected credit upon him. Mr. Grueby, perceiving a 
compliment had been paid to his host, though the allu- 
sion to the pro-consul was beyond him, exclaimed 
“Hear, hear,” and emptied his glass of Madeira as 
though he was doing honor to a toast, then added, in 
a loud aside to his fellow-guest, “For my part I can’t 
think how he does it.” 

It was not a very judicious remark, since it seemed to 
imply a want of visible means in his entertainer of pro- 
viding a good dinner, and it met with no outward sym- 

59 


6o 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


pathy from the person addressed, though his very heart* 
strings were tickled by it. The face of the host, as he 
pulled stertorously at his nargile, which had already 
been supplied to him, and glared at the little divine, 
was a study; nor was Mr. Robert’s countenance without 
the traces, of annoyance. Mr. Grueby, who had paid 
much attention to the champagne during the repast, 
now constituted himself a permanent official on the 
bottle railway, taking good care the line should not be 
blocked, while at the same time he never failed to stop 
the train at his own station. The two golden rules for 
drinking — ‘‘ Drink slow,” and Don’t mix your liquors” 
— he recklessly ignored, and would probably have paid 
as little heed to the third, “ Never sit with your back 
to the fire,” had not his location at table made such an 
imprudence impossible. 

Though the company was small in number, their 
characters were various. Sir Charles was a man apart, 
but at the same time capable of conversing on any topic, 
and with the air of one to whom it was familiar. The 
parson, naturally garrulous and egotistic, was rendered 
more so by the generous wines, which, as he observed 
with justice, and a movement of the eye designed to be 
intelligent, was “such a tipple as 3"ou didn’t get every 
work-a-day, nor even Sundays.” Mr. Robert, though 
chiefly occupied in restraining his friend’s loquacity, 
had a mind full of serious matters. The host, taciturn 
on all other subjects, was eloquent, between his puffs 
of tobacco, upon the affairs of British India, in which 
the baronet courteously affected a keen interest — the 
more important, if less entertaining topics of the future 
of our Eastern possessions, not without a delicate sug- 
gestion now and then that it would have given better 


WHEN THE LADIES HAD WITHDRAWN. 6 1 

promise if his own commissionership had been pro- 
longed. What mortal man could effect for the benefit 
of toiling millions of our fellow-creatures and our 
fellow-subjects, though with dusky skins, in a quarter 
of a century, by forethought and assiduity (with, per- 
haps, some little natural genius for administration) he 
might say he had done ; but, after all, he felt that his 
work was but a broken column. The ridiculous system 
of superannuation, the matter of irrigation, for instance. 

Here Mr. Grueby illustrated the subject under dis- 
cussion by upsetting a bottle of sherry, and irrigating 
the table with its contents.” 

“ Ring the bell, ” roared the ex-commissioner. If the 
servant had been a native, and had answered with 
Eastern promptitude, his master would probably have 
ordered him to remove the vicar; but there was, for- 
tunately, some little delay, which gave time for reflec- 
tion, and an opportunity for apology on the part of 
the vicar. ‘‘Very sorry,” he was heard to murmur; 
“points got wrong somehow on the railway.” 

“ Fortunately,” said Sir Charles, with his ready smile, 
“ it was only a goods train, and there has been no loss 
of life.” 

The ex-commissioner, save for muttered ejaculations 
of wrath, which alternated with the hubble-bubble of 
his pipe, was, however, silenced for the evening; the 
great gun, from which a good deal more might have 
been expected, and would, indeed, undoubtedly have 
come, was, so to speak, spiked, and the baronet felt some 
gratitude towards the divine in consequence. This was 
fortunate, since it now became necessary to talk to 
him, Mr. Robert being openly occupied, though his 
efforts were carried on in whispers, in assuaging his 


62 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


father’s indignation. The position, which would have 
been embarrassing to most persons in his place, 
afforded genuine pleasure to the guest of the evening. 
It semed to him that he had not had such fun for 
many a day as he was enjoying at “the warren,” as he 
called it. 

“And what is your tip for the Derby,” he inquired 
of Mr. Grueby, with the air of a neophyte addressing the 
very fountain of information. 

“Ah, that’s tellings. Sir Charles,” returned the other, 
not only with his usual wink of superhuman cunning, 
but even with a slight projection of his tongue. “ We 
know what we know, don’t we, Mr. Robert?” 

“ I know nothing at all about it,” returned that gen- 
tleman curtly. 

“Quite right; mum’s the word, ” returned the mother 
with a chuckle. 

Mum had been the word, with Mr. Grueby, while 
dinner was going on, but Port and Madeira had also 
since played their parts with him, and placed him in a 
position tolerably elevated, from which he was not likely 
to be moved by satire or snubbing. 

“Well,” he said, “not to be unsociable, I will tell 
you what Salesby thinks of the first favorite, and you 
must admit he is a good judge. You won’t go far 
wrong if you go by Salesby.” 

“Still, I have heard Mr. Salesby has been unfortu- 
nate in his racing speculations,” observed the baronet, 
smiling. 

“ Well, that is so. I said you would not go far wrong 
in following his advice ; but I did not say you would be 
right. He is the kind of man that always backs the 
second horse. He’s wonderfully keen upon it still. 


WHEN The ladies had withdrawn. 


63 


poor devil ; ^ I should like to live to see my son ride the 
winner of the Derby,’ he was only saying the other 
day.” 

“ But I thought he had no son.” 

“Nor has he; that’s the joke of it. Twenty years 
ago he might have said ‘I hope to live to own a Derby 
winner’ ; but he has gone down several pegs since 
then.” 

“ It is fortunate, poor fellow, then, that he is child- 
less. ” 

“ Nay, but he isn’t. That shows you have not been 
at Hillsland, Sir Charles, for a year or two, or you 
would have found out, I warrant, that Dick’s daughter 
has grown to be the prettiest girl — well, save one who 
shall be nameless — in the whole parish. A brown 
girl, with very good eyes, and who knows how to use 
them. ‘ She’s backit like a peacock, she’s breasted like 
the swan;’ you know the style. Only Kitty has a 
tongue of her own that flicks you like a whip.” 

“Then that was Miss Kitty,” reflected Sir Charles, 
“ who was using her eyes with such effect on Master 
Lawrence in the orchard this afternoon. I admire his 
taste and also hers, for it’s clear her tongue has flicked 
the parson. ” 

“ But you have suffered this young lady to run away 
with you, Grueby,” he observed; “which, indeed, is 
not to be wondered at, from what you tell me of her 
charms, and have not answered my question about the 
Derby.” 

“ Oh, Salesby thinks that those who have put their 
money on Ganymede will lose it.” 

“But you, it seems, have better and more private 
information on that matter.” 


64 


MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


‘‘Well, perhaps we have,” and the vicar looked with 
triumphant sagacity toward Mr. Robert. That gentle- 
man’s face, however, might have been carved in stone 
for any response it gave him. “ Fm sorry to seem 
grumpy, but a secret — and especially a secret of the 
stable — is worth nothing when it’s told.” 

“ Do you suppose,” inquired Mr. Robert in icy tones, 
“that the three to one in half-crowns you may have 
taken upon the event in question is likely to excite the 
cupidity of Sir Charles Walden?” 

“Oh, come, I like that,” returned the vicar, stung 
by his friend’s contemptuous tone. “ Half-crowns, in- 
deed. And now you’ve mentioned the odds he has 
only got to look at the paper; and you’ve told him.” 

“I give you my honor, Mr. Grueby,” observed Sir 
Charles, with great gravity, “ that I will take no advan- 
tage of the indiscretion.” 

“ Enough said between gentlemen, ” returned the 
vicar effusively. “ A glass of wine with you. Sir 
Charles. ” 

This operation was effected with great solemnity, 
while the ex-commissioner in speechless indignation 
pushed his velvet cap up so far on the back of his head 
that it seemed to hang there by mere capillary attrac- 
tion, and Mr. Robert stabbed a pear with his silver 
knife with murderous vehemence. 

“ And how are the mines going on up Hillsland way?” 
inquired Sir Charles, breaking an embarrassing silence. 
“ In my part of the world they seem to be showing 
signs of recovery.” 

For the first time the continuity of the speaker’s 
usual success was broken. He had, hitherto, said noth- 
ing which was not acceptable, and as was his wont 


WHEN THE LADIES HAD WITHDRAWN. 


^5 

(when it pleased him to be gracious) in his most gra- 
cious manner; but to speak of mines at Hillsland Hall 
was like talking of a rope in the house of a man whose 
son has been hanged. In this case it was only a son- 
in-law, but the shaft — as it might well be called — went 
home. Aunt Jerry’s husband — Mr. Jeremiah Lock — 
had sunk in shafts about one hundred thousand pounds. 
The baronet’s question had been addressed to the host, 
and Mr. Robert, no doubt to save his father from an 
unpleasant topic, had opened his mouth to reply to it. 
For some reason, however, best known to himself, he 
shut it without permitting one word to escape, and with 
his eyes fixed on his plate waited for the old gentle- 
man’s rejoinder. 

“ I know — er — very little — er — about mines,” he an- 
swered, while the hubble-bubble of the nargile made 
itself very distinctly heard, a sign, as one of the party 
at least knew, of suppressed emotion ; ‘‘ but, from what 
I hear — er — there is more activity in that branch of 
speculation. ” 

“Activity is just the word for them,” replied the 
baronet smiling; “they always remind me of vol- 
canoes, not only from the devastation they cause, but 
from their periods of eruption and quiescence. They 
make such a sensation when they are prospering, and 
are so very quiet when the lode gives out. There is 
nothing in nature looks so dead as a worked-out mine.” 

“When they are dead, however, they still make 
‘calls,’” observed the vicar ruefully. It was clear 
that Mr. Grueby had dropped his half-crowns in other 
places besides the race-course. 

“There are exceptions, however,” remarked Sir 
Charles with cheerfulness. “ I hear the Common 
5 


66 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


Wheal mine, for example, which we all thought dead, 
has come to life again, and the old shareholders are 
getting cent per cent for what they thought was lost 
mone)^” 

“ I read something to that effect in the paper the 
other day,” returned Mr. Robert indifferently. “ If you 
have finished your cigar. Sir Charles, we will join the 
ladies.” The host himself did not join them, but, 
pleading fatigue and the privilege of old age, retired to 
his sanctum, muttering execrations on the vicar in the 
Hindustani tongue, and followed by his body-servant 
with the nargile. 


CHAPTER IX. 


IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. 

When the gentlemen entered the drawing-room, they 
found the ladies at nearly as great a distance from one 
another as cattle who are not on good terms upon a com- 
mon. Mrs. Robert almost prostrate on a sofa, recruit- 
ing her exhausted energies; Miss Jane superhumanly 
upright on a music stool in front of the piano ; Mrs. 
Merridew at a tambour frame, at which she was gazing 
thoughtfully but doing not one stroke of work; and 
Ruth with a book in her hand, occupying one-half of a 
conversation chair. At the gentlemen’s appearance the 
whole party became endowed with vitality, as though 
it were some automatic instrument, in which, when 
you put a penny in the slot, the instrument begins to 
work. Mrs. Robert sat up and feebly smiled; Miss 
Jane struck a few notes on the piano; Mrs. Merridew 
began to make moss roses with floss silk; and Ruth 
rose from her chair. 

“ Pray do not let me disturb you,” said Sir Charles to 
her. “What a charming chair! Should I drive you 
away, if I were to try it?” 

The girl hesitated for a moment, and then resumed 
her seat. 

“ No, indeed,” she answered gently, but with a touch 
of coldness; “ why should you?” 

“ Well, the fact is we have all been misbehaving our- 
67 


68 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


selves,” he replied smiling, ‘'smoking cigars. I feel 
as if I ought to change my coat before coming near a 
lady. ” 

” We are all used to the smell of smoke in this house. ” 

For so young a girl, she struck him as marvellously 
unembarrassed. There was not a trace of shyness 
about her, but still less of forwardness or flirtation. 
When he had entered the room, he thought she had 
had some purpose in having chosen the conversation 
chair. 

"Vainly,” he had said to himself, "is the snare 
spread in sight of the bird. ” This was not from vanity, 
though he had a pretty high opinion of himself, but the 
result of experience. So many nets had been spread for 
him in his time by the female fowler; but now he felt 
he had been mistaken. The chair, if there was any 
design in its choice, had, he was convinced, been chosen 
for her. Her manner, if not absolutely hostile to him, 
was not encouraging ; it was cold and indifferent ; and 
she was surely too young to affect indifference with the 
object of attracting him. Nevertheless it had that 
effect. It piqued him. She had undeniable attractions 
of her own too, of which the conversation chair gave 
him excellent opportunities of judging. A more beau- 
tiful girl, he was compelled to acknowledge, as they 
sat at ease opposite to one another — not too close to be 
embarrassing, yet near enough for minute observation 
— he had never seen. Without the least touch of 
haughtiness, she wore an air of singular independence 
and self-reliance. It was evident that he had by no 
means made that impression on her which he was 
accustomed to make on women far her seniors. She 
was comparatively alone with him; Mr. Robert wasap- 


IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. 


69 


parently saying something sympathizing to his invalid 
spouse ; Mr. Grueby was turning over the leaves of 
Miss Jane’s music book, and beating time, as well he 
might, for it was all wrong and deserved it, with 
unsteady hands; and Mrs. Merridew was busy with 
her moss roses. The pair in the conversation chair 
were isolated, but Ruth sat perfectly at her ease, with 
her finger keeping the place in her book, as though she 
were at least as ready to resume her reading as for con- 
versation. “May I ask what is the subject of your 
studies?” Sir Charles inquired. 

“ I was reading Shelley’s ‘Revolt of Islam. 

“A beautifvil poem,” he observed, “but rather 
unintelligible. Do you not find it so?” 

“ Now and then I require it to be explained to 
me.” 

“You are fortunate in finding an expounder.” 

For the first time the color came into her face, 
enhancing what had seemed perfection. 

“ Yes; I am afraid I am not very poetical. Shelley 
puzzles me where, I am told, he ought not to do so. 
For instance, there is his ‘Cloud.’ I feel how beautiful 
it is, but the meaning is in places obscure to me.” 

“ I have found that, too, and hitherto it has vexed me; 
now I shall be pleased, because I shall know I have 
your sympathy.” 

“I should think it would be more satisfactory,” she 
replied coldly, “to get the poem explained.” 

He felt that she resented his compliment; indeed, 
some men might have considered themselves snubbed; 
but to Sir Charles Walden such a conviction was im- 
possible. He drew from his pocket a gold pencil case 
and a dainty little ivory tablet. 


70 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


“Then you will not refuse," he said, “to kindly 
oblige me with the name and address of your instructor. " 

She could not but smile at his pretence of earnest- 
ness, but again a flush mantled to her forehead. “ It is 
my cousin Lawrence," she said, “who smooths my 
Shelley difficulties; he is very fond of poetry." 

“ Indeed?" the other answered with a pleasant smile. 
“I dare say, now, he writes poetry himself." 

“He does, and very well," she answered gravely; 
then added, hastily, “ not that I am any judge of such 
matters ; and, besides, I have no right to say a word 
about it." 

“I wonder whether she has or not?" thought Sir 
Charles to himself. “ It is almost certain that these two 
young people have fallen in love with one another. 
What else have they to do in this house, with such sur- 
roundings? Upon my life. Master Lorry, you are not 
so much to be pitied, after all." 

“ You need not be afraid of my telling tales out of 
school, my dear young lady," he replied, in the gen- 
tlest tone, “ for your cousin is a friend of mine. " 

It was the one advantage which his superiority in 
years gave him, that he could use that phrase, “ my dear 
young lady," without impertinence; but it was not 
altogether to his satisfaction that she seemed to take it 
as a matter of course. What was quite as probable — 
shi. might not, however, have noticed it, her mind be- 
ing occupied with another subject; and that was not a 
consoling reflection to him either. 

“Yes," she said, with the first approach she had 
shown to animation, “ Lawrence told me that you had 
been kind to him. " 

“ I have every desire to be so," returned Sir Charles 


IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. 


71 


softly, but I have had no opportunity of showing him 
kindness. I could not help being pleased with such an 
engaging young fellow; who could?” 

“A good many people can,” she answered bitterly. 

Even if you were but civil to him, it was a new ex- 
perience; civility is a thing he is not accustomed to. ” 
The speaker’s eyes glittered, but not with tears. She 
clenched her fingers, and pressed her lips together, as 
if to suppress an outburst of indignation. 

“ And yet your cousin seems to me so bright and 
genial and willing to please,” observed Sir Charles, with 
a surprised air. Of course good looks go some way 
with one, even with one’s own sex; but his manner is 
as pleasant as his face. ” 

He had no fault to find with her immobility now ; the 
girl’s cheeks were flushed with pleasure, her mouth 
wore a grateful smile; her very bosom heaved with 
sympathetic emotion. 

‘‘You agree with me, I see,” he continued, “which 
shows I have judged him aright. Now what makes 
people — I mean the people you speak of — treat him ” 

“Like a dog,” she put in suddenly; “that is how 
they treat him. He has his faults, of course, poor 
fellow ; who has not? But if you ask me why they treat 
him so, I cannot tell.” 

“ The explanation is easy enough, my dear young 
lady,” he answered gently. “They feel that he is 
superior to them in natural endowments — spiritual, 
mental, and physical ; and having the whip-hand of him 
in material, though less important matters, they like 
to make him feel his inferiority there. It is not 
generally understood, but it is nevertheless true, that 
a considerable section of mankind — and, alas ! even of 


72 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


womankind — have the attribute of envy, in which the 
quadruped is deficient But, in a young lady’s pres- 
ence, I must not express myself too strongly ” 

“You are not doing that," she answered with sup- 
pressed agitation ; “ you do not know what he has to 
endure." 

Sir Charles smiled to himself at this introduction of 
the personal pronoun into an abstract question. 

“Well, I was about to say, as regards those who 
tyrannize over helpless and inoffensive persons, through 
jealousy and from the mere love of cruelty, there is 
in my opinion only one name for them: they are 
brutes." 

He saw by her face that he had found a way to her 
heart at last, though by a strange road. 

“ It seems to me," said Mr. Robert to his wife, “ that 
Ruth is taking advantage of her opportunities. Sir 
Charles and she have already found some common 
ground of sympathy." 

“It’s Shelley, no doubt, ’’ returned the invalid, con- 
temptuously. She was by no means pleased that the 
guest of the evening had not sought the neighborhood 
of her sofa instead of the conversation chair. She had 
evidently made a favorable impression on him, and he 
could have flirted with Ruth at any time, whereas, as 
he ought to have known, her nerves were not always 
equal to the mental strain of conversation. To-morrow, 
after such unusual excitement, she would probably be a 
wreck. 

“ I don’t care whether it’s Shelley or shellfish, if only 
the topics helps her. on the way to Hurlby Castle," ob- 
served Mr. Robert bluntly. 

“ Robert, you shock me," returned the lady reproach- 


IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. 


73 


fully. How can Shelley — a Pagan, I believe — ever 
form the groundwork of a union of hearts?” 

“ All marriages are not made where I venture to think 
ours was, Popsie,” returned her husband gently. 

“ But in this case there is such a disparity of ages,” 
she returned plaintively. “ Ruth is so very young that 
really I feel hardly justified in doing what little I have 
done to-night to encourage Sir Charles.” 

Encourage? You have charmed him, my dear, which 
is little to be wondered at; but you are far from having 
anything to reproach yourself with on that account. 
A husband is often all the more devoted for being his 
wife’s senior. Why, you are younger than I am, for 
instance.” 

“ Flatterer! It is only by a few months, you know.” 

“ It seems years, to look at you, my precious.” 

‘‘To be sure, it would be deplorable if Lawrence and 
Ruth should fall in love with one another, would it 
not?” replied the lady pathetically. 

“Lawrence! I should like to catch the fellow at it,” 
returned the other with scornful vehemence. 

“ He is uncommonly handsome,” observed the lady, 
with feminine persistence. 

Nobody could have said that of her husband at that 
moment. Praise of the helpless lad, seldom as he heard 
it, was wormwood to him ; and in this case it was the 
more bitter because it proceeded from one whom it was 
unadvisable to contradict. 

Miss Jane's song now came to a conclusion, and Mr. 
Robert clapped his hands applaudingly, but with an 
expression of face such as an Eastern despot might 
wear when summoning his chancellor of the bowstring, 
and which did not escape Sir Charles' eye as he ap- 


74 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


plauded likewise. To have a cigar with that man 
alone, while under the necessity of being civil to him, 
would, he reflected, be intolerable ; and yet a cigar he 
must presently have. 

“What does your uncle do with himself after dinner?’' 
he inquired of Ruth abruptly. 

“ He generally goes to grandpapa’s room.” 

“A filial duty,” he replied approvingly. “Now, 
since you tell me every one smokes in this house, I con- 
clude Lawrence smokes. Would you mind asking him 
to let me be his companion for half an hour.” 

“ Nothing would give him greater pleasure, I am 
sure-,” said Ruth. “ His sitting-room is at least clean 
and airy, if it is not furnished with much splendor. I 
will tell him to call for you when you gentlemen 
retire.” 

“ A good song, and very well sung, was it not, vSir 
Charles?” exclaimed Mr. Grueby. 

“ It was not only well, but charmingly sung,” replied 
the baronet, rising and approaching the piano. “ It is 
so long since I have been in the musical world. Miss 
Stratton, that my opinion is not worth much ; but since 
I last heard professional singing of the highest class 
there is nothing that has given me so much pleasure.” 

Miss Jane’s face grew red with pleasure — though not 
in the proper place; she was one of those women whose 
«olor rises everywhere but on her cheeks. 

“You are very good to say so, but I feel I am not in 
voice to-night.” 

She had really acquitted herself very well, and was 
quite aware of it. Singing was the one accomplish- 
ment she possessed. 

“ Then I shall look forward to to-morrow night with 


IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. 


75 


eagerness,’* he answered, a reply not only flattering but 
politic, since it put a stop to further performances for 
the present. She closed the music book and rose, and 
the other ladies followed her example. Sir Charles, 
as they bade him good-night, gave their hands a tender 
squeeze which each translated after her own fashion ; 
he smiled effusively on all, except Mrs. Merridew, 
whose hand, however, he pressed with particular signif- 
icance. He had already learned enough of the char- 
acter of the company to know that any favor shown to 
that unhappy lady would be turned to her disadvantage. 

When the last petticoat had left the room : “ Now let 
us enjoy ourselves,” exclaimed Mr. Grueby hilariously. 
“ Stratton has got the mellowest whiskey. Sir Charles, 
that ever you tasted.” 

“ I never touch whiskey,” returned the baronet with a 
cold smile, ‘‘and, if our host will excuse me, I prefer to 
retire.” 

The vicar’s jaw dropped, for he was by no means 
desirous of a tete-a-tete with his friend, wherein his con- 
duct at table was likely to be criticised ; but Sir Charles’ 
tone admitted of no remonstrance. Mr. Robert ac- 
companied his guest to his room — not an unnecessary 
courtesy in the labyrinth of Hillsland Hall — and left 
him there with effusive wishes for a good night’s rest; 
repaid I am sorry to say, when the door had closed on 
his retreating person, by the muttered ejaculation, 
“ Beast!” 


CHAPTER X. 


IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN POETRY. 

Sir Charles had but just exchanged his coat for a 
smoking- jacket, and his evening shoes for slippers, 
when there was a light tap at his door, and Lawrence 
Merridew presented himself. He wore the same 
clothes he had on when they parted on the hill ; their 
patched and frayed condition were in such strong con- 
trast to the other’s gorgeous raiment that it forced it- 
self upon the visitor’s eye, in spite of himself. And 
yet this lad was a son of the house, removed only by a 
generation from the man who had just been playing 
the host. The best instincts of the baronet’s nature 
revolted against this unnatural discrepancy. On the 
other hand, the young fellow’s face, as compared with 
his uncle’s, was that of a Hyperion to a vSatyr; good 
breeding and intelligence showed themselves in every 
line of it — though physically he could hardly be termed 
handsome, it was full of intellectual grace. Sir Charles 
had that weakness for youth and good looks which in 
men of his stamp does duty for pity and tenderness, 
and it intensified his just indignation. 

If you will come to my poor sitting-room,” said the 
lad, “ and bring your cigars with you — for I regret to 
say I have none to offer you — you will find it at least 
large and airy, and it will save you the discomfort of 
sleeping in a smoky atmosphere.” 

76 


IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN POETRY. 


77 


“ Oh, as to that, ” returned the other smiling, ” I am not 
very particular, and I am afraid that I am sometimes 
so lost to a sense of propriety as to smoke in bed. But 
I shall be glad of your companionship over the social 
weed, and gladly accept your offer of an asylum.” 

Lawrence nodded, and led the way through many a 
passage and corridor, and up stair after stair. 

“Well, upon my life, it is a. warren,” exclaimed Sir 
Charles, as he toiled after his guide. 

“ Hush, ” returned the other ; “ there are ferrets about. ” 

The seriousness of the young gentleman’s tone, no 
less than the appropriateness of the remark, upset the 
gravity of the visitor. He had some humor of his own, 
and a keen appreciation of it in others, but amusement 
of any kind was a rare luxury with him. He had 
passed the time when it can be purchased. 

“ Do you mean your uncle?” he inquired. 

“Yes; he and that foukmart, the parson, have just 
gone into the smoking-room yonder. I heard the door 
shut.” 

Sir Charles, shaking with mirth, began to tread 
lightly as a truant schoolboy passing his master’s door. 
He had enjoyed nothing so much as this clandestine 
adventure, with its soupgon of impropriety as regarded 
the laws of hospitality, for years. 

“This is my den. Sir Charles,” said the lad presently, 
ushering his companion into a large bare apartment 
furnished with three chairs, a deal table, and a book- 
case obviously “knocked up” by the village carpenter. 
There were no curtains, and the moonlight without 
illumined it quite as much as the two tallow candles 
that flared and guttered on the table. 

“ There’s plenty of room in it, at all events, ” observed 


78 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


his guest, seizing the sole opportunity for praise that 
presented itself, “and, by Jove, what a fine view you 
have from your windows.” 

“ Yes, that is a luxury the value of which Aunt Jane 
does not understand, or she would doubtless have left 
me with a brick wall to look at,” was the bitter reply. 

“ You must not say a word against Aunt J ane, please, ” 
said Sir Charles with mock gravity. “She has just 
been delighting me with her fine voice ; she sang like a 
nightingale.” 

“I wish she had sung like a swan,” was the grim 
reply; “for then we should have heard the last of 
her.” 

Sir Charles, with his nose flattened against the win- 
dow pane, said nothing; but his shoulders shook. 

“ Here,” he was thinking to himself, “ is a rara avis^ 
a satirist of twenty. I was like that myself, once.” 
But he never had been like it. His cynicism, arti- 
ficial from the first, had grown to its present dimen- 
sions out of very different materials — out of wealth and 
idleness and ennui. In this boy it had been born of 
wrong and want and ill-usage. It was clear that Aunt 
Jane was not a topic suitable for discussion over the 
genial weed. 

“ How far can one see from these windows in the 
daytime? There is a mist on the lake which suggests 
immensity.” 

“ Well it A a good size, and also uncommonly deep ; 
but on a clear day you can catch a glimpse of the sea 
itself. The view is then really worth looking at. 
‘The crowded farms and lessening towers that mingle 
with the bounding main. * ” 

“You are fond of poetry, Master Lawrence. Well, 


IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN POETRY. 


79 


SO was I once, though now I can no longer enjoy but 
only criticise. Life with me is reduced to its lowest 
terms. ” 

“And yet you have everything in the world that you 
can want," put in the other, with a quickness which 
showed it was not the first time that reflection had oc- 
curred to him. 

“Quite true; but unfortunately I want nothing. My 
desires are comprehended in the one word — comfort — 
which, however, includes plenty of tobacco. Take a 
cigar," 

Sir Charles produced from his pocket a case of the size 
of a small portmanteau. 

“Thank you," returned the other, selecting one of 
its gargantuan tenants. “ I have never seen such a 
giant as this, not even as ‘ the Marchioness ’ says, ‘ in 
shops. ’ " 

“ It has not a giant’s strength : it will not hurt 
you." 

“Strength? I am not at all afraid of that," smiled 
the lad. “This is the sort of thing I smoke." 

He produced a cake of tobacco, quite hard, and in- 
tensely black. 

The baronet took it up and examined it with unaf- 
fected interest. “ Dear me; what is it?" 

“It is cheap," returned the young fellow quietly, 
“The name of the brand is of secondary importance " 

“ But you have to use tools — a pickaxe, if not blast- 
ing-powder." 

“No, I cut it with a knife. 

“ My poor boy And yet the Satrap is said to be the. 
richest man in these parts." 

“The Satrap?" 


8o 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


I mean your grandfather. He is so magnificent 
and mysterious that I am always searching about for 
some noble name to fit him." 

“ His grandson, however, has only a shilling a week 
pocket-money," returned the other drily. 

“ A shilling a week!" The vexed question of “ What 
is a pound?" seemed to be recurring to Sir Charles’s 
mind in connection with this very inferior coin. What 
was a shilling? It did not even represent the price of 
one of his cigars. If the commissioner treats you in 
this way, I shall have to find quite another class of 
names for him. I had no idea he was so restricted in 
his ideas. Let us call him the commissionaire." 

“Oh, it’s not my grandfather; he is scarcely aware 
of my existence. It is Uncle Robert and Aunt Jane. 
‘You must keep him short,’ they say to my poor 
mother ; who, indeed, has no means of keeping me long 
— I mean otherwise." 

The mixture of humor and bitterness in the lad was 
curious. If he had been doing his best to make him- 
self agreeable to his companion, instead of speaking 
out of the fulness of his heart, he could not have hit 
upon a better way. Sir Charles was not only amused 
but something more. With every puff of his cigar he 
felt more kindly toward the young fellow, and more 
antagonistic to his enemies. 

“ Have you no friends, my lad, beside the one you 
have made to-day," he said gently — “and, of course, 
your mother?" 

A flush of gratitude came into the boy’s face. He 
beheld a patron, as he thought, in his companion, but 
without a patron’s manners, which would have been in- 
tolerable to him; for, though poor as Job, he was proud 


IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN POETRY. 


as Lucifer. Sir Charles understood the flush perfectly 
well, but from a natural delicacy of mind, and also be- 
cause he wished for information upon another point, he 
affected to ascribe it to another cause. 

Your face, my boy, has already answered my ques- 
tion. You have a friend under this roof beside your 
mother, and almost as dear to you. She is the young 
lady to whom I owe the pleasure of your society to- 
night, is it not so?” 

Again the young fellow blushed, but answered with- 
out embarrassment, “Yes, Ruth is a true friend; and 
as brave as she is true. She dares to be kind to me, 
even in my uncle’s presence. Sometimes, I think,” ex- 
claimed the boy, rising from his chair and pacing the 
room in uncontrollable excitement, “ I shall stick a 
knife into that man. You don’t know what a false and 
cruel brute he is.” 

“I can make a tolerable guess at it; but never, my 
dear fellow, use a knife. There can be no ‘ misadven- 
ture ’ about a knife. If you must needs resort to such 
strong measures use a revolver, which is always liable 
to go off by accident. Shall I send you one by parcels 
post?” 

“Well, of course I was not in earnest,” returned 
Lawrence, with half a smile, “ though the man I am 
speaking of would have no scruples about murder if his 
own neck was safe. I have seen it in his eye a score of 
times. ” 

“ That is the worst of having an expressive coun- 
tenance, when one is a scoundrel,” observed Sir 
Charles philosophically. “ Our friend Mr. Grueby’s 
face is a blank, which has been of great advantage to 
him. It is one thing to have a forehead with scoundrel 
6 


82 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


written on it like a birthmark, and quite another to 
have it merely a elean space for other people to write 
upon when they have found you out. You may say he 
has been found out; but it gave him time in which to 
behave himself unsuspected, and he did not lose the 
opportunity. A parson is like a woman; when he’s 
bad, he’s very bad.” 

“And when he’s good, he’s very good,” remarked 
Lawrence, in a tone of conviction. 

“You have discovered that, have you?” said the 
other incredulously. 

Sir Charles had his reasons — explicable enough, if 
not very good ones — for disliking clergymen of all 
sorts. It is customary with men of his class and kind 
to think contemptuously of them ; they find a reproach 
to themselves in their very existence, their sacred call- 
ing; they disbelieve in their faith and fancy that them- 
selves must disbelieve in it; they belittle their works, 
or even impute to them a dishonest motive. Whatever 
was good in Sir Charles — and there was good — was, as 
it were, outside their good, and had no connection 
with it. 

“The best man I have ever known, however,” ob- 
served Lawrence gravely, “ was a clergyman. It was 
my old tutor, Mr. Percy.” 

The frown which hung upon Sir Charles’ brow grew 
darker. 

“ Percy was your tutor, was he?” he said in an altered 
tone. There was marked displeasure in it, which how- 
ever escaped the other’s notice. He was too full of his 
subject to regard it. 

“Yes; though unfortunately only for a few months. 
Do you know him?” 


IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN POETRY. 83 

“I did know him at one time/' returned Sir Charles 
indifferently. 

“Then I am sure you liked him," cried the young 
fellow enthusiastically. 

To this there was no response. 

“ I suppose his lessons were thought too dear for you 
by your good uncle." 

“ No, it was not that. Mr. Percy would, I believe, 
have taught me for nothing; but he fell out with Mr. 
Grueby." 

“I remember: pulled him up before the bishop. 
Well, in mustering our forces, we may leave Mr. Percy 
out of our calculations as being too far off to be an ally. 
Is there no one else in the house, save those you have 
mentioned, who wishes you well?" 

“ No one, save Aunt Jerry." 

“Aunt Jerry? one would think she was an uncle." 

“Yes. It was from her husband’s Christian name, 
indeed, that she derives her own. It was Jeremiah." 

“ To be sure. He made some figures in these parts at 
one time as a mine owner, but was eventually swallowed 
up by his own property, like the eagle transfixed by the 
arrow sped from his own wing. Not that he was much 
like an eagle in other respects, if I remember right." 

“ vStill he was thought highly enough of till he died a 
pauper. You may imagine the position of the widow 
of such a failure among her relatives at the Hall! She 
is ill and broken, and they affect to believe she is ‘ not 
all there. ’ " 

“She is so far to be congratulated," observed Sir 
Charles dryly. “ There is on your side, then, your 
mother. Miss Ruth, and Aunt Jerry; and against you 
the Pro-consul, Mr. Robert, and Miss Jane." 


84 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


Lawrence nodded. “ Equal in number, but very dis- 
proportionate in strength,” he sighed. 

“And there is the usual complement of spies and 
underlings on the stronger side, I conclude.” 

” No. I have no enemy among the servants. I don’t 
say I have deserved their good will; perhaps it is be- 
cause they hate their master and mistress; but they are 
as civil to me as though I had the power of rewarding 
them.” 

Sir Charles thought to himself that in the case of 
such a comely and pleasant young fellow there might 
be a reason for the sympathy of at least all female 
hearts. 

” It is a humiliation to us, though they are far from 
intending it,” continued the lad, “that both Aunt Jerry 
and I see that they pity us.” 

“You two are in Coventry together, then?” 

“ Yes, when any one is at the Hall; and in the even- 
ing always condemned, she and I, to have our meals in 
her room. We are not thought good enough for the 
dining-room society.” 

“ Well, upon my life, it seems to me that any change 
should be welcome to you, my poor boy. I heard 
something said about Singapore.” 

The young fellows face grew troubled. “Yes, I am 
to be sent there in a year’s time, to fill a vacancy that 
will occur there in a merchant’s office. It doubtless 
seems to you that I ought to ‘ jump at it; ’ but I don’t 
jump. ” 

“ Home has still certain attractions for you then,” ob- 
served the other, looking critically at his cigar. 

“No, it is not that, or not entirely that; but since 
you are so kind as to show an interest in my poor 


IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN POETRY. 


85 


affairs, I have the vanity to believe that if I cotild once 
get the chance, I could make my own living in Eng- 
land.” 

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay, 
eh?” 

‘‘ There is something of that in it, no doubt; but at 
the risk of arousing your ridicule ” 

“There is no risk of that,” put in Sir Charles gently; 
“ if you have the least fear of wearing your heart upon 
your sleeve lest I should peck at it, dismiss it. 
Though no more like an eagle than was your uncle 
Jerry, I am no daw.” 

“ I am sure of that,” said Lawrence earnestly. “ But 
I know what is thought of young persons who flatter 
themselves they have a turn for literature and hope to 
make a living by their pen. ” 

“ And what is it you think you may be able to write?” 

“ Stories.” 

“Well, well; it might have been worse,” said Sir 
Charles, with a little sigh of relief. 

“ Might it?” returned Lawrence in a voice half 
humorous, half plaintive. “ How could it have been 
worse?” 

“Well, it might have been poetry, my dear fellow.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE COURAGE OF HIS OPINIONS. 

There was silence for a while between the two com- 
panions — so different in their natures and yet, as it 
seemed, so well pleased with one another — at that word 
“poetry.” Lawrence for the first time looked a little 
embarrassed ; his lips parted as if about to speak, but 
nothing came of it. The amused smile which should 
by right have illumined the baronet’s features remained 
perdu; he had the cynic’s faculty of making a dark 
lantern of his mirth. It would have been easy enough 
to pursue the subject, for he already had the data, but 
he wished the confessions of his young friend to be 
voluntary and not extorted. 

“ As to stories, m)^ good lad, you are quite right in 
supposing that that is the only line of business to be 
adopted in literature, if you want more than bread and 
cheese; but you will forgive me for saying that it is 
necessary to have a story to tell. ” 

“Not at all,” said Lawrence laughing, “to judge by 
the success of yonder novels,” and he pointed to a pile 
of cheap fiction heaped upon his bookcase. 

“True; but there is a certain knowledge of life that 
does not come by instinct, and which writers of twenty 
years of age do not possess. Even novel readers prefer 
seasoned wits — experience that is at least equal to 
their own.” 


86 


THE COURAGE OF HIS OPINIONS. 


87 


know it, I know it,” exclaimed the young fellow 
impatiently; “but I am really not such a fool as you 
think me.” 

“ If you think that, it is a very small tribute to my 
discernment,” put in Sir Charles smiling. “ If it were 
so I should not be here, for example. I hate a fool 
much more, I fear, than a knave.” 

“ I am speaking of the apparent folly of my expecta- 
tions,” returned the young fellow, taking no notice of 
the implied compliment. “ My position is rather pecu- 
liar: I have read a good deal of what I believe will be 
of service for my purpose ; and my surroundings, you 
will admit, are exceptional.” 

“ He is going to lampoon his relatives,” thought the 
baronet to himself. “ Upon my word they would make 
good material.” 

“ I am thoroughly acquainted with such life as is to be 
found in Hillsland,” continued Lawrence, “both above 
and below ground, and I think that I have some faculty 
of description.” 

He spoke not only with confidence — which is common 
enough with literary beginners — but in a tone of in- 
tense conviction; with the air, too, of one who has 
looked long at the subject on which he discourses, and 
from all points of view. It began to occur to Sir 
Charles's mind that in his friendly feeling toward this 
budding genius he had “let himself in” for more than 
he had intended. 

“ I have told you I have sunk to the condition of a 
critic, my good fellow,” he said cheerfully, “and 
though my opinion may be of the usual value of ‘ad- 
vice gratis,’ it is quite at your service. If you will 
show me some of your productions, of which I am sure 


88 


A MODERT DICK WHITTINGTON. 


you have many, and they are of moderate length — eh? 
Why do you laugh?” 

Lawrence, indeed, was laughing heartily. The 
apprehensions of his companion had made themselves 
so manifest under the cloak (though it was no disguise) 
of friendly interest that it was too much for his sense 
of humor. 

” Though it might not have been so bad as an epic, 
you feared that it might be a three-volume novel,” he 
said, smiling. ” Perhaps it even struck you that I 
might have gffered to read it to you?” 

“No, no, my dear fellow, I didn’t think that,” said 
Sir Charles, with apologetic haste. “ The man who 
lays his hand upon one of his own manuscripts, and, 
even in the way of kindness, reads it aloud to his friend 
deserves — well deserves to have a Robert Stratton for 
his uncle.” 

“Quite true, and you can’t go further than that,” said 
Lawrence gravely. “ But since you are so very kind as 
to offer me your opinion — which will be invaluable to 
me, for I know no one to consult on such matters — I 
will some day put a specimen or two of my poor pro- 
ductions into your hands. Now I will not talk shop 
any more — good heavens, the coffee!” 

“ Is there coffee? I shall almost think it comes from 
Heaven.” 

“A thousand pardons; but I am unused to the ob- 
ligations of hospitality. Your kindness and sociability 
drove everything else out of my mind; but coffee is the 
one thing I can give you. My grandfather, in a fit of 
generosity, or in some sudden recollection of her exis- 
tence, once gave Aunt Jerry some which is really ex- 
cellent, and she gave me a share of it.” 


THE COURAGE OF HIS OPINIONS. 89 

“Long live the Rajah,” exclaimed Sir Charles en- 
thusiastically. “ No one can tell what I have suffered, 
my good lad, for the last hour. Your conversation is 
delightful, but I confess I did want my coffee.” 

If Lawrence had entertained a doubt — which he had 
not — of the genuineness of his friend’s sentiments 
hitherto, there could be no suspicion, at least, of this 
one. The drink in question was one of those “ com- 
forts” he had confessed were indispensable to him. 
The host went to a cupboard and brought out a battered 
coffee-pot and a spirit lamp, while his guest, with a 
cigar in his mouth and a languid interest in his eye, 
examined the bookcase. 

“You have Byron’s works here, I see. ‘Childe 
Harold’ seems to have been a recent acquisition, and 
‘Don Juan’ an earlier; it is more thumbed, at all 
events.” 

“Well, the fact is, I can’t read the ‘Childe. ’ At the 
risk of falling in your estimation I must admit he 
wearies me.” 

“Never mind my estimation; always speak your 
mind with me. As it happens I think no worse of you. 
I have been at all the places described, which of course 
adds an interest to the poem, and yet he wearies me.” 

“ Byron seems to me melodramatic — too much given 
up to egotism and vanity; he suggests nothing.” The 
baronet smiled. 

“Well, it is not my mission to defend him. ‘Other 
men, other minds, ’ is an aphorism which applies to the 
poet most of all. The generation who most esteems 
him is almost always his own generation, though not, 
perhaps, at first.” 

“ That was not the way with Shelley and Keats.” 


90 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


“ True, nor with Tennyson, though I can remember 
when Tennyson was pronounced ‘girliwsh’ and even 
‘unintelligible/ A great scholar, a friend of mipe, 
always shook his head at ‘Tears, Idle Tears,’ because 
he couldn’t put it into Latin verse.” 

“That would be my difficulty too,” said Lawrence, 
laughing; “ and yet, to me, it is the most beautiful and 
suggestive poem in the language?” 

“ If that is your opinion of it at twenty, you may 
judge what is mine at fifty, when one feels what you 
only imagine. ” 

“ And yet you tell me you are no longer apprecia- 
tive>” 

“Well, I suppose one is human after all,” returned 
the other; “that is occasionally.” 

He looked annoyed, like a man about town who is 
recognized by an acquaintance while piloting a blind 
beggar across the street. “You have ‘Don Quixote’ 
and ‘Gil Bias/ I see, which everybody reads — enough 
to swear by.” 

“ Yes. Bury me in what living tomb you please, ” said 
Lawrence pathetically, “ but give me my ‘Don Quixote, ’ 
and a light to read it by, and I am content. Strip me 
of house and land, but leave me ‘Gil Bias;’ and you 
will never rob me of my mirth.” 

The baronet laughed outright. “ Upon my life, my 
young friend, you have the courage of your opinions ; 
but you will find it just as well to keep them to your- 
self, if you mean to be on good terms with the critics. 
Here is ‘Tristram Shandy. ’ That, too, is not dropping 
to pieces from over-use, I notice.” 

“ How is it possible to like a book in which the author 
rarely finishes a chapter, or even a sentence, and ‘gets 


THE COURAGE OF HIS OPINIONS. 


91 


no forrarder’ in a hundred pages; it is like driving a 
gig from John o' Groat’s house to the Land’s End 
with a jibbing horse. There are occasional indecen- 
cies, I admit, but not nearly so many he is credited 
with. ” 

“And that is the way you speak of one of our British 
classics!” cried the baronet, holding up his delicate 
hands. 

“Well, the fact is, I suppose, that being cut off from 
all occupation and amusement, I have been compelled 
to read the immortal Sterne, which is not the case with 
the majority of his admirers. Here’s your coffee, Sir 
Charles, at last.” 

But the baronet, capricious even in his desires, had 
already fixed his attention elsewhere. “ Why, here is 
an unpublished volume — a treasure in MS. — by jingo! 
and in verse, too. Why, you’re a rhymester after all!” 

“I never said I wasn’t,” replied the young fellow, 
doggedly; “no one is bound to criminate himself. 
Besides, you only said in speaking of my literary am- 
bition, you were ‘glad it was not poetry. ’ And so far 
you may be glad still.” 

“Your modesty does you credit, my lad, but these 
verses begin well : 

‘Cherry cheeked, merry eyed, 

Lip apart, head aside. 

Crowned with thy golden hair ; 

Maiden, this youth of thine, 

Far more than men or wine, 

Breedeth joy, stayeth care. ’ 

“They are addressed ‘To ,'Isee, quite on the 

old ' fashion.” 

“Yes, they are,” observed Lawrence dryly. 


92 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


“ A very proper reproof to my curiosity,” returned the 
other closing the little book. “ It is a private volume, 
and I ought not to have opened it.” 

“ Why should you not have done so, since it was in 
the bookcase with the rest? I had no intention of in- 
flicting any of its contents upon you, but since you have 
them there they are quite at your service. ” 

Sir Charles resumed his seat and sipped his coffee, 
book in hand. He turned over its pages with languid 
interest. “ Melancholy, of course,” he murmured, as if 
to himself. When we are young and vigorous, we 
are melancholy out of ‘pure cussedness;’ when we grow 
old we are so by compulsion. ‘Lines in Dejection!’ 
‘Farewell’ — its like saying ‘good-by’ instead of ‘good- 
morning. ’ ‘Poverty;’ well, you do know something 
about that, my lad. What’s this? ‘The Home Spirit. ’ 

‘ Like a sunbeam gliding over common places 
About this dreary home of ours she moves, 

Whate’er her hands are set unto she graces, 

Her duties not beneath the things she loves. ’ 

“ A good line that. 

‘ Serene, unconscious of her perfect sweetness. 

As one of those moss-roses she hath tied 
In clustered beauty, with some art past neatness. 

As born high-heartedness excelleth pride. ’ 

“ Pretty, very. What follows, too, is good, and the last 
verse is charming. 

‘ Ah I bliss to him to whom she shall be given ! 

Fond heart, clear head, pure soul, and form so fair, 

Her spirit well might cleave to it in Heaven, 

And meet him changeless and unangelled there. ' 


THE COURAGE OF HIS OPINIONS. 


93 


“ Has the angel ever seen this? ” 

What angel?’' inquired Lawrence, looking into his 
coffee cup, as if to tell his fortune by the dregs. 

“ The young lady to whom these lines are addressed. 
She walks the earth, I suppose, at present?” 

'‘Yes; she has seen them.” 

“ And the other?” 

“What other?” 

“ Come, come, you might credit me with some small 
degree of intelligence. ‘Lip apart, head aside, crowned 
with the golden hair. ' Has she seen that 7 ” 

“Yes, ‘the other,' as you call her, has seen that.” 

“Then I will ask no more questions, though one 
more was on the tip of my tongue.” 

“ Pray ask it, if you have a mind.” 

“ I was going to inquire whether the angel had seen 
the other verses, or the lady with the golden hair those 
addressed to the angel; but it is unnecessary, for I am 
quite sure they have not. There, now, I have annoyed 
you ; I cannot say how I regret it. I told you I was 
a cynic, but I did not mean to be rude ; pray forgive me. ” 

“ I have done that already,” said the young fellow, 
but the cloud still sat on his mobile face. “ I can’t 
afford to quarrel with you.” 

“Ah, that is cruel. A weapon forbidden by the 
amity of nations. Put yourself in my place.” 

“True,” said Lawrence penitently; “I should not 
have said it; but what you have just said about melan- 
choly applies to us in a reverse sense as regards bitter- 
ness. You are bitter because it is your fancy to be so; 
I am bitter from circumstances over which I have no 
control.” 

“You are quite right and I have been quite wrong,” 


94 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


continued the baronet, holding' out his hand. “ And in 
token of forgiveness I must ask you to pilot me back to 
my own room. I shall know my way here before I 
leave Hillsland Hall, for we shall, I hope, have many 
another chat together.” 


CI-TAPTER XII. 


THE HONORED GUEST. 

Sir Charles had been no hypocrite in his show of 
interest in the affairs of his young friend. He even 
felt a sort of gratitude to him for having evoked it. 
Sentiment of almost all kinds was well-nigh dead 
within him, and he was not displeased to have it re- 
suscitated. It has been well observed that we do not 
leave our vices; our vices leave us; and the same thing 
is true of our nobler emotions. As we grow old, and 
^ especially if we have passed our lives in idleness and 
pleasure, not only our illusions, but our sympathies, 
gradually die out. In some cases, avarice, the desire of 
useless gain, swallows up, like Aaron’s rod, all other 
feelings, but from that curse, at least. Sir Charles was 
free. He was by no means too much of a gentleman to 
do things that were base, but he shrank from anything 
sordid ; his nature, if not delicate, was fastidious. But 
he only spoke the simple truth when he had said that he 
cared only for comfort. As regarded all other matters 
his character had become a stagnant pool. There still, 
however, lay within it in process of dissolution some 
elements of good, and they had been brought to the 
surface by Lawrence Merridew. He was genuinely 
interested in the young fellow. The contempt and 
neglect with which he was treated by his relatives 
aroused his indignation, while at the same time it flat- 

95 


96 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


tered the baronet’s self-esteem. The behavior of Mr. 
Robert and Miss Jane were, he persuaded himself, 
exactly what was to be expected, and corroborated his 
cynical and pessimistic views of life. 

There was something else, too, which quickened his 
decaying interests. Mr. Robert was a far cleverer 
knave than he gave him credit for, and had shown his 
cleverness in baiting his hook for the blas^ baronet. He 
had gathered that Sir Charles had been struck with 
Ruth, when he met her at the bazaar, and had rightly 
concluded that his admiration of her would be increased 
by a nearer acquaintance. Certain Eastern jewels in 
the ex-commissioner’s possession — he had quite a col- 
lection of such treasures — about which Sir Charles had 
expressed some curiosity, had favored the pretext for 
inviting him to Hillsland Hall; but the unconscious 
Ruth was the Kohinoor on whose beauty he relied to 
dazzle his father’s guest ; and this object had been so 
far accomplished. 

To say that Sir Charles had fallen in love with her 
would, indeed, have been a monstrous exaggeration; 
but he was greatly struck with her. In his youth he 
had been a victim to the fair sex; later on these re- 
lations had been reversed ; and in his maturity he had 
still a weakness for them, though tempered by experi- 
ence. At fifty years of age, however, he was still vain 
enough to imagine that, if he chose to take trouble, he 
Could inspire even a girl with the tender passion. He 
possessed very great and rare advantages for such a 
conquest, and did not underrate them. On the other 
hand, it was necessary that the young person in ques- 
tion should be somewhat isolated, ignorant of the world 
and (especially) without other suitors more eligible as 


THE HONORED GUEST. 


97 


regarded age. He could have won her, perhaps, even 
away from them, unwillingly; but with that he would 
not have been content. He was exacting in that re- 
spect. Much as he had admired Ruth in the drawing- 
room, he had a suspicion that his admiration was 
thrown away from the manner in which she spoke of 
Lawrence. If her affections were already fixed on her 
cousin, he felt it was hopeless to attempt to win them, 
though he might win her. If he had been charmed with 
the young fellow on so short an acquaintance, he could 
easily understand how attractive he must be to one of 
the other sex, living under the same roof with him, 
and deeply sympathizing with the unmerited cruelty 
with which he was treated. His poverty, his wrongs, 
his lack of friends, would be so many claims upon her 
generosity and tenderness. 

In the face of such rivalship the baronet would have 
withdrawn from the struggle, though backed by all the 
grandfathers, aunts, and uncles in Christendom. With 
Lawrence Merridew in his mind’s eye, it was impossi- 
ble to regard his own maturer charms with compla- 
cency; and though he could give Lawrence many points 
in the art of pleasing, the natural attraction of the lad 
— his enthusiasm, his literary ambition, his touching, 
though doubtless misplaced, confidence in himself, and 
his youthful brightness — would outweigh the baronet’s 
efforts even in that direction. But his conversation 
with Lawrence that evening, so far at least as that 
young gentleman was concerned, had relieved his mind 
with respect to Ruth ; he felt convinced that the lad’s af- 
fections were engaged elsewhere — no doubt to the young 
lady in whose company he had been seen in the orchard 
that day. The verses, the discovery of which had caused 
7 


98 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


Lawrence such embarrassment, described her personal 
appearance, so far as Sir Charles remembered it, accu- 
rately enough ; whereas the reading those other verses, 
evidently depicting some one else, and presumably 
Ruth, had awakened in their composer no embarrass- 
ment at all. They were not, like the former, a picture 
drawn by passionate admiration, but merely, at most, 
by tender esteem. In eliciting this information Sir 
Charles had been obliged to run the risk of giving of- 
fence to his young friend; but it had been worth the 
risk, and no offence, save for the passing moment, had 
been taken. Without confessing as much to himself, 
he felt more pleased with Lawrence, as regarded this 
matter, than with all else. His impulse to befriend 
him and assist his simple plans was greatly strength- 
ened by it. To do good to one’s enemies is an injunc- 
tion which a good many people find it difficult to obey, 
and it is possible that Sir Charles’s generous intentions 
toward Lawrence would have dwindled away had he 
found in him a rival. As matters stood, he felt all the 
vehemence of good-will which is entertained by those 
who only very seldom propose to themselves a scheme 
of benevolence. Moreover, it was aided by a cordial 
dislike for Lawrence’s persecutors. 

The question that now presented itself to Sir Charles 
was not so much how to help his young friend, about 
which he felt tolerably sanguine, but how to show 
friendship to him without arousing the anger, or in- 
creasing the bitterness, of his enemies. 

At breakfast time, next morning, Lawrence appeared 
with the rest, but not in his usual rags. Attire was 
not a matter that, even in his salad days, had had much 
attraction for Sir Charles. “If a man is a trump,” he 


THE HONORED GUEST. 


99 


had been wont to say, ‘‘ it signifies nothing about his 
suit;” but the spruceness of the lad’s costume was a 
revelation to his new friend. He gathered from it, at 
once, that their companionship of the previous evening 
had become known, and that, since the honored guest 
had taken an inexplicable fancy to this insignificant 
member of the household, his relatives had thought it 
worth while that the lad should be attired like a gen- 
tleman. And so indeed it was. It had been Mr. Rob- 
ert’s intention to keep him out of sight during Sir 
Charles’s stay, since he shrewdly suspected that what- 
ever the lad might have to say to him would not be to 
the credit of his rulers and betters; but now that the 
mischief had been done, it was clearly injudicious to 
corroborate by an open show of ill-treatment any slan- 
ders he may have uttered. The fact was that Mr. Rob- 
ert, ferreting about in “The Warren,” had actually 
come upon his nephew on his way to his own room after 
leaving that of Sir Charles. He had been in hopes of 
having -caught him out in some delinquency, but the 
lad’s manner, always bold enough, at once convinced 
him by its “ infernal impertinence” (as he afterward 
described it to Aunt Jane) that he had been mistaken. 

“ If you want to know what I have been about ” 

“I do,” put in Mr. Robert furiously. 

“ I have been smoking a cigar with Sir Charles Wal- 
den. ” 

It was an unpleasant piece of information, as it stood, 
but if he had known how large a share Sir Charles’s dis- 
like of himself had had to do with it, Mr. Robert Strat- 
ton would have been still more disgusted. As it was, 
he set it down to the baronet’s disinclination to the 
company of Mr. Grueby, for which he was compelled 


lOO 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


to admit there was some excuse. The parson and he 
had had that matter out together, not entirely to his 
own advantage, and the master of the house had, at a 
later hour, dwelt upon his clerical friend’s behavior 
with much distinctness of condemnation. “ For the 
future, sir, at all events,” the old gentleman had fumed 
out, since your plan of introducing a drunken helot 
for his entertainment has broken down, see that Sir 
Charles has his own way, while he remains with us, in 
every particular.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE “stretcher.” 

“See that Sir Charles has his own way. ” That fiat 
of the ex-commissioner, delivered with all the vehe- 
mence of which he was capable (and this was still con- 
siderable), was of great service to the baronet’s plan. 
On the previous day, Mr. Robert had endeavored to 
impress him with the extent and pressing nature of his 
occupations, “ The cares of a vast estate which m}^ fa- 
ther is no longer in a condition to superintend, etc.,” 
and this his. guest now opportunely called to mind. 

“You must not treat me, Mr. Robert, as a stranger 
within your gates,” he said. “ There is no greater nui- 
sance in a house where the host has his duties to per- 
form than a mere idler. If I am not to be looked upon 
as one of the family, I shall take myself off.” 

It was quite touching to see how Miss Jane was 
affected by this threat, at once so terrible and so 
friendly. “ If you can only be content with our good 
will. Sir Charles — for I am. afraid we have few attrac- 
tions, indeed, to offer you ” Here she stopped, 

doubtless from emotion, and placed her hand upon her 
niece’s shoulder, who happened to be her neighbor, 
either for support or in illustration of the attractions of 
which she spoke. 

“ Content?” he said. “ If only I can feel assured that 
I am putting no one to inconvenience, I shall enjoy 

lOI 


102 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


myself thoroughly. I always think that in large coun- 
try houses such as this the guest is happiest who is left 
to his own devices — unless, indeed, he is one of those 
miserable men who requires to be amused. ” 

‘‘ But some of us ladies who have nothing to do,” ob- 
served Miss Jane, “will be very happy to entertain you, 
or, at all events, to do their best to do so,” and again 
she suffered her fingers to stray caressingly on Ruth's 
shoulder. 

“ I shall be troublesome enough to them, no doubt,” 
he answered, smiling; “but for this morning I have 
promised myself a long walk with Master Lawrence, 
yonder, for my cicerone.” His tone was as indifferent 
as he could make it, and he .did not even so much as 
look at the lad as he spoke ; but it was plain, neverthe- 
less, that his proposal was not a welcome one to the 
lady of the house. 

“Lawrence is at your service, of course,” she said, 
with such marked coldness that Mr. Robert felt it his 
duty to tender an explanation of it. 

“It seems to me. Sir Charles,” he observed slyly, 
“that you have made the ladies rather jealous.” 

“If any of them is equal to a ten mile stretch,” ex- 
claimed the guest, “ I need not say how glad I shall be 
of her company. But I am under a vow, imposed by 
my medical adviser, to do that amount of walking 
whenever possible.” 

It was known that the baronet was a great pedestrian, 
though it was not so generally understood that he was 
under the doctor's hands, so that his transparent little 
fib passed muster ; and for the rest of the meal he did 
his best to curry favor with Miss Jane (and at the same 
time to please himself) by paying attention to Ruth. 


THE “stretcher.” 


103 


That, he felt, was his best way out of his difficulty as 
regarded Lawrence, and it was a very pleasant way. 
His proposal of companionship with her cousin had 
evidently gratified her. It was plain she admired his 
courage in exploding what was little less than a bomb- 
shell to her aunt and uncle in thus taking by the hand 
the object of their contempt and ill-treatment, and per- 
haps (he thought) she envied that social position which 
had enabled him to do it with impunity. The subject 
that most interested Ruth, when he had the opportunity 
of speaking with her out of earshot of the rest, he soon 
found to be Lawrence — which, though from one point 
of view unwelcome, was in another at least convenient. 
It was one which not only gave him an opportunity 
for eloquence, but also for presenting to her the most 
attractive side of his character — his sympathy with the 
weak, his contempt for the oppressor, and the interest 
he felt in the lad’s literary ambition. 

In public he prudently took as little notice of Law- 
rence as possible. He displayed the same caution as 
respected Mrs. Merridew, and even Aunt Jerry, so care- 
ful was he not to offend the higher powers more than 
could be helped. Why he troubled himself to undertake 
a part so altogether strange to his nature and habits, 
was a question he would have found some difficulty in 
answering; but, though it could not be said, at present, 
at all events, that he played it for love, he certainly 
threw himself into it con amore, Mrs. Jeremiah Lock, 
by the way, had been presented to him for the first time 
that morning ; a spiritless and almost speechless lady, 
prematurely old, and who evidently shrank from all 
observation. Ruth saluted her with great tenderness, 
which had revived her a little, as water re-animates 


104 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


some fading flower, but her air and manner with others 
was painful in its humility. She appeared to be making 
a perpetual apology for her own existence, though it 
was pretty plain that she would not long give offence 
by it. 

Sir Charles, who was not without imagination, pic- 
tured her to himself as a once light-hearted and per- 
haps even comely woman, whose spirits had been 
crushed out of her by years of dependence and op- 
pression. But Aunt Jerry had been always dull and 
plain, though she had taken Mr. Lock’s fancy, or what- 
ever had been the substitute for it. She was thought 
at the time to have made the best match of the family; 
but the fortune her Jeremiah had made for himself was 
even then a little “ dipped,” and had gone on dipping 
(underground) until nothing remained of it but shares 
in unproductive mines — or, what was worse, liabilities. 
Even those who had regarded her most charitably 
thought her “a poor creature,” as indeed she was; and 
it had even been said of her that she was “ a little 
touched in the upper decks.” In this, however, they 
were mistaken, though it would have been better for 
her, perhaps, had it been so; but — 

“To know the change and feel it 
When there was none to heed it 
Nor numbed sense to steal it,” 

was poor Aunt Jerry’s lot. 

From the circumstance of their being both in the 
same condemnation by the authorities — though in her 
case this came from no particular antagonism: they 
only pronounced her “not presentable” — Lawrence and 
she were thrown a good deal together ; but the young 


THE “ STRETCHER. ” 


105 

fellow did not pretend to have mnch regard for her. 
He pitied and was kind to her, as he would have been 
to any creature in distress, but he had no more sym- 
pathy with her, individually, than she with him, and 
he would rather, perhaps, have been left to himself al- 
together than to her commonplace company, except 
for certain material advantages — such as the coffee — 
which it brought him. But with Ruth it was different. 
When Aunt Jerry would sometimes complain, “I am 
not clever enough for Lorry; he doesn’t care for a stu- 
pid, tedious old woman like me,” it sent a pang through 
her tender heart. She would never blame her cousin. 
“ Lorry is very peculiar, Aunt Jerry,” she would reply; 
“ he is wrapt in quite other matters than those which 
concern you and me, but he is very fond of you, I’m 
sure;” yet in secret she wished Lorry had been more 
genial with his relative. 

Strange, therefore, as it might seem, and especially 
to those who thought they knew him best. Sir Charles 
started for his ‘‘ stretcher” with his young friend that 
morning with almost the same sense of thoughtless 
enjoyment as his companion. The boy, in fact, was 
much the more thoughtful of the two, having, as he 
imagined (as the other, indeed, would have readily 
acknowledged), much more to think about. The idea 
had not unnaturally taken root in his mind that it was 
possible he had found in his new friend a helper, nay — 
such had been the sympathy evinced in his literary aspi- 
rations — almost a helpmate, small as seemed the oppor- 
tunity. It was the first chink, as it were, through 
which the lad had seen daylight. Youth and hope are 
better castle-builders (in the air) than can be found in 
the Society of Architects ; and somehow Lawrence ven- 


io6 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


tured to believe that Sir Charles could smooth the way 
for him, if not to the dizzy heights of the temple of 
fame, at all events to some moderate elevation above 
the waters of want. In the meantime he was im- 
mensely pleased at having been chosen for his cicerone 
in their morning's ramble. 

Lawrence Merridew was a true lover of nature, and 
the task of pointing out the beauties of Hillsland was 
very congenial to him. The village, a very pictur- 
esque one, was itself highly placed, but above it tow- 
ered a great table-land, crested with forests of firs, from 
which there was a truly magnificent view. In the fresh 
and vigorous air that always blew there the odor of the 
pine trees was mingled with the “scent of the sea,” 
borne inland for many a mile. Between the village 
and the ocean lay quite another district — that of the 
mines — but the disfigurements they caused on the sur- 
face were from this altitude hardly noticeable, and 
merely gave variety to the landscape. Sir Charles lis- 
tened to his young friend with less of interest than 
amusement, as he descanted enthusiastically upon this 
and that object of admiration; for the man of the world 
did not much care for “nature." The primrose by the 
river’s brim was a primrose to him and nothing more, 
nor did the daffodil haunt his dreams ; and he took a 
similar prosaic view of landscape. What it all sug- 
gested to the elder man, when it suggested anything, 
was of a wholly different kind to the thoughts it awak- 
ened in the younger. At the topmost clump of firs 
Lawrence halted. 

“This is the finest view we have," he said. “Half 
the county lies beneath us." 

“Yes; I was here once before," returned the other 


THE ‘‘stretcher.” 


107 


indifferently, but with a certain air of unpleasant rem- 
iniscence, too — “when I was standing for it.” 

“When you were standing for what?” asked Law- 
rence, puzzled. 

“ The county. You know nothing about it, of course, ” 
added the other, in reply to his look of astonishment ; 
“and besides I didn’t get it.” 

“ How was that?” said Lawrence, not quite knowing 
what he said. He felt that he had stumbled upon a 
disagreeable topic. 

“Well — not that it signifies— but it was the tongue 
of slander. ” He murmured to himself contemptuously 
the well-known motto of a northern college : “ They say ; 
what do they say? Let them say,” and resumed his 
walk with rapid steps in silence. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


AT “ THE CORNER.” 

That long-continued silence was the first sign of 
egotism Sir Charles had manifested to his young com-, 
panion. Considering their relative ages and positions 
he had hitherto shown an unlooked-for abnegation of 
self; he had thrown himself, if not heart and soul, at 
all events with the appearance of so doing, into the oth- 
er’s affairs, with a complete abnegation of his own. 
But now, it seemed, he had begun to think of them. 
His smooth brow was furrowed, his “Cupidon” lips 
twitched with strange excitement, or closed together 
tightly. The impassive, gracious man was ‘.troubled 
with some reminiscence of his past. There were still 
many men who would have said, and no wonder,” but 
they were not those who had known him best. His 
nature was not one given to retrospection, far less to 
cry over spilt milk. But that recollection of having 
been rejected for the county was bitter to* him, for it 
had been one of the few occasions when his amour 
propre had been wounded. So it often happens in the 
long catalogue of our sins against God and man, that 
the consequence of one of them, though it may have 
been a very inadequate punishment for it, stands out 
in our memory, and makes us appear to ourselves 
aggrieved. It had been almost the only time — and was 
certainly the last — in which Sir Charles Walden had 

io8 


AT ‘‘the corner.” 


109 

ever appealed to the opinion of his fellow-creatures, 
and it had been recorded against him. It had been a 
small matter — a very small one in comparison with 
other subjects of regret in his career; but none had 
made so great an impression upon him. There are 
some of us who have no remorse for serious offences, 
but it takes very little to^ embitter our lives. Hitherto 
Sir Charles ha,d seemed to give himself up to the mood 
of his young companion, and even to take pains to say 
nothing of discouragement; but for the remainder of 
the walk he was at first distrait^ and, when he gradually 
recovered his self-possession, cynical. 

“ It is amazing to me,” he presently said, “that with 
all this love of yours for nature, you should have such 
an ambition for things outside it. You ought to be a 
philosopher, or rather a philosophic poet, content ‘ with 
the root and the spring,' and never wish to stray from 
these charming surroundings.” 

“Well, I don’t wish to exchange them for Singapore, 
it is very true,” said Lawrence, his sense of gratitude 
to his companion (not, perhaps, unmixed with that of 
favors to come) struggling with a feeling of indignation 
at what seemed very like a sneer. “ But though you 
may not see the necessity of it. Sir Charles, I must live, 
and even ‘the root’ you speak of would in my case not 
be forthcoming.” Though the lad’s tone was quiet his 
face showed what he felt. 

“Forgive me, my dear boy,” said the other impul- 
sively, “ I spoke like a brute to whom roots are the 
proper nutriment. I wanted — or rather the devil 
within me wanted — to say something spiteful, and I 
said it to the wrong person. Why, that is Hurlby, is it 
not, out yonder? ” 


no 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


“Yes; your round tower just peeps above the trees. 
When the flag is flying, which, I suppose, betokens your 
presence, it looks still more picturesque.” 

“You will see it nearer, soon, I hope, when the flag 
is flying,” returned the other graciously. “There are 
some things in the castle that will please you.” 

Lawrence murmured a few words of thanks for the 
invitation, which indeed gave him great pleasure ; the 
more, since it was wholly unexpected; for he knew 
that Sir Charles lived the life of a recluse. 

“ I hope you won’t find it so dull as I do,” continued 
the baronet. “ It is my experience, however, that one 
can stand a visit to almost everywhere once, always sup- 
posing one can get away when one likes.” 

“ I trust that that tribute to the delights of hospital- 
ity,” said Lawrence, laughing, “does not imply that 
we shall not see you again at Hillsland?” 

“ If so, it will not be because the Hall wants attrac- 
tions, I do assure you,” said the other earnestly. Then 
more lightly, “ Perhaps the Rajah may not ask me 
again. I have a suspicion that I have not made a 
favorable impression on him, and still less on your 
uncle Robert.” 

“ If it be so, that comes of befriending me,'* observed 
Lawrence gratefully. * 

“ That is sad, for s6 far as I can I shall continue to 
earn his ill-will in that respect,” answered the other, 
smiling. “ Now we are getting home again. Whose is 
that melancholy-looking house yonder, with the ‘ garden 
of the sluggard ’ attached to it?” 

“ That is Mr. Salesby’s,” said Lawrence with a slight 
flush. 

“Then let us drop in and pay him a call. I owe him 


AT THE CORNER.” 


Ill 


one, for he voted for me at the election. If Mr. Grueby 
is to be trusted — which, however, is doubtful — we shall 
get the latest Derby tip from him.” 

Lawrence cared nothing for Derby tips, though per- 
haps as much as Sir Charles did. The latter, indeed, 
was simply curious to see the young lady on whom, as 
he had reason to suspect, his young friend had set his 
affections, and of whom he had already caught a fleet- 
ing glance in the orchard on the previous day. He 
might also have wished to renew his acquaintance, if 
the very little he knew of him could be so called, with 
Mr. Salesby, who was a character” in his way, though 
not a good one. He belonged to one of the oldest 
families in the county, who, though they had never 
occupied a prominent position, had been in a fairly 
elevated one — till horse and hound had ruined their 
present representative. Dick Salesby had still a “ bit 
of blood” on which he hunted twice a week in the sea- 
son, but it was the last link with his palmy days that 
was left to him. His neighbors of the gentry still 
nodded to him in familiar fashion, but not even the 
humblest laborer touched his cap. The agricultural 
mind is dull, but it is keen to recognize superiority of 
position — and the want of it. His friends were only 
found in the pot-house, mostly hangers-on of the turf. 
Lawrence was ashamed of the man who (in his bright- 
est dreams) he pictured as his father-in-law, and of the 
ramshackly dwelling he called his home ; but since his 
companion was bent on visiting it, there was no escape. 
He only hoped that Kitty would be away somewhere, for 
it would be dreadful if Sir Charles should see her — like 
a jewel set in pewter — amid such sordid surroundings. 

‘‘Why, the place is to let,” exclaimed Sir Charles, 


II2 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


pointing to a notice-board that leaned like a drunken 
flag over the broken paling which fringed the neglected 
garden. 

‘‘No; it is Mr. Salesby’s peculiar way of informing 
strangers of the name of his house. He calls it ‘The 
Corner. ’ Some allusion to the Derby course, I believe. ” 

“Oh, I see; Tattenham Corner. ' Our friend must be 
an original.” 

At that moment, as if to illustrate the fact, Mr. 
Salesby appeared at his own front door. He was a 
spare little man, who, if he had been younger, might 
well have been taken for a jockey out of place. He 
looked as if he had been “sweated down,” and had 
suffered in health in consequence. His appearance was 
“horsey,” from the straw in his mouth to the spurs on 
his old ill-kept top boots. He had just come in from 
his morning ride. 

“ Well, Master Lorry, how goes it?” he shouted, al- 
most as loud as a view holloa. “ Come in, and bring 
your friend with you.” 

As they obeyed the invitation, and walked up the 
well-worn gravel walk, the visitor took note of the des- 
olate aspect of the house. 

“What! Sir Charles Walden, is it?” exclaimed the 
host with pleased surprise as they drew nearer. “ Wel- 
come to ‘The Corner.’ You must be dry after a walk 
in this weather; have a glass of claret.” 

He pronounced the word — perhaps it modestly inti- 
mated the mildness of the vintage — as though it were 
monosyllabic. 

“I wpuld rather have a glass of ale, ” replied the 
other, smiling. “ I remember how good your tap used to 
be, though it is many years ago since I tasted it last.” 


AT ^^THE CORNER.” 


II3 

“Aye; that was at the great election time, fifteen 
years ago. It was not my fault that yon did not get in. 
What I said was, when people said things agen you, ‘Let 
by-gones be by-gones. ’ Take a seat. Sir Charles.” 

He led them into a barely furnished room, the walls 
hung round with pictures of Derby winners, looking 
very much alike, and a portrait of the host on horse- 
back. The handles of the bell-ropes were foxes’ “ pads 
upon the mantel-piece, stuck in cheap vases, as though 
they had been flowers, were foxes’ brushes; above them, 
as though it had just bitten its way through the wall, 
was a fox’s head. There was a litter of clay pipes, frag- 
ments of tobacco, and bills headed “ accounts rendered” 
upon the table — which Mr. Salesby cleared away by 
the simple process of sweeping them on to the floor 
with his “ crop, ” still held in his hand. “ They may just 
as well lie there as anywhere else,” he grinned, “so far 
as any chance of their being paid is concerned.” 

“Yes, the times are bad, indeed, for us who live by 
the land,” observed Sir Charles sympathetically. 

“ They’re deuced bad with at all events,” replied 
the host, not without a touch of satire and a use of the 
figure termed ellipsis, though he was unconscious of 
his obligation to it. He disliked the other’s pretence 
of being in the same boat — “ Impecuniosity” — with 
himself ; but his sense of the duties of hospitality for- 
bade his resenting it. He rang the bell, and on its 
being answered by a slatternly girl, exclaimed, “Yell, 
and glasses round; ” then added, as she was leaving the 
room, “ and tell your young missis to come down.” 

Lawrence sighed and looked out of the window, 
while Sir Charles fixed his attention on the portrait of 
their host. 

8 


1 14 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

“Aye, that’s Stick-a-back,” cried Mr. Salesby. It 
was not from modesty that he attributed the interest of 
the picture to the horse rather than to its rider, but 
simply that in his eyes the equine race was superior to 
the human. “The best timber-jumper of his day, bar 
none. He’d ha’ won the ‘Liverpool’ but for a cUvSsed 
storm, which made the ground slippery.’’ 

“What great events hang on small causes,’’ observed 
the baronet demurely. 

“You may say that, for I lost four hundred pounds 
by his not keeping his legs. But here’s the yell; 
where’s Miss Kitty, lass? ’’ 

“ She’s coming up the walk now,’’ returned the hand- 
maid. 

Lawrence was already acquainted with the fact, and, 
indeed, had been making appealing but unmistakable 
signs to her to go back again. Sir Charles turned to 
the window, and beheld, as it struck him, at least one 
flower in the garden which for grace and beauty it 
would have been difficult to match. Kitty Salesby was 
“tall and most divinely fair,’’ but she looked her best 
when she moved. It has been said that only a few 
women know how to walk, and she had this art, which 
in her case was nature, to perfection. Every limb in 
her body was full of grace, every line a line of beauty. 
Her father went to the window and beckoned her in 
impatiently. She replied with a nod of assent; but 
such a nod! The two gestures might have been taken 
as examples of the coarseness and refinement of which 
the same sign-language is capable. Y’et strange to say, 
the girl was not very refined except in a physical sense. 
Her manner, indeed, was never awkward — she had no 
mauvatse honte — but there was an absence of that deli- 


AT ‘‘the corner.” 


IIS 


cate reserve about it which, when it is not affected, is 
the crown of maidenly grace. She was far from bold 
or forward; quite free from anything that could be 
called vulgarity ; but her bringing-up and surroundings, 
and above all the necessity for self-assertion in domes- 
tic matters, which circumstances had imposed upon her, 
had given to her, for so young a girl, an unusual air of 
independence. When her father introduced his guest 
with some touch of ostentation as Sir Charles Walden, 
of Hurlby Castle, she took his outstretched hand with- 
out the least sign of perturbation, and when Mr. Salesby 
added with a dry chuckle, “Master Lawrence, I think 
you know,” she nodded to him familiarly, without em- 
barrassment. 

Naturalness, so wholly unlooked-for, was not likely 
to escape the baronet’s observation ; but, so far from 
taking advantage of it, he continued his conversation 
with his host, leaving the two young people to them- 
selves. His attention, however, seemed inclined to 
wander; and when the ale was being poured out by 
Kitty, very deftly and with a fine froth upon it, “You 
are not listening to what I am telling you about Gany- 
mede,” said Mr. Salesby querulously. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Sir Charles, “but for the 
moment,” here he bowed his thanks to the young lady, 
“ I was rather thinking about Hebe.” 

The classical allusion was lost upon both father and 
daughter, but Kitty would have rightly understood 
that a compliment had been paid her, even had not 
Lawrence laughed and gently clapped his hands. It 
pleased the young fellow exceedingly that the beauty 
of his inamorata had awakened the admiration of his 
fastidious friend. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE JUDICIOUSNESS OF FIFTY. 

Though Lawrence knew so little of the world, he 
felt grateful to Sir Charles, inasmuch as, notwithstand- 
ing the favorable impression Kitty had evidently made 
upon him, he scarcely addressed her throughout the 
visit, which lasted for some time, but left to him the 
pleasing task of entertaining her. It was the kinder 
of his friend because he had felt that Mr. Salesby was 
boring his guest to extremity with his talk of the stable, 
though the other showed no more sign of his sufferings 
than an Indian at the stake. A few words, indeed. Sir 
Charles did say to Kitty to show that she was not ne- 
glected ; he spoke of the beauty of the neighborhood, 
joined with her in her praise of the fir groves, and in- 
quired into her occupations, the simplicity of which 
amused him. But on the whole he might be truly said 
to have sacrificed himself on the altar of friendship, 
and that, too, with such apparent willingness that his 
host wrung his hand, as he took his leave, informed him 
that he was ‘‘the best of company,” and swore that if 
he ever stood for the county again he would work for 
him “like a navvy at a barrow.” 

“ So I have found one source, at least, of your poetic 
inspiration, Master Lorry,” observed Sir Charles, as 
they passed through the garden gate, not without diffi- 

1 16 


THE JUDICIOUSNESS OF FIFTY. II7 

culty, for it hung on a single hinge. “ ‘ Lip apart, head 
aside, crowned with thy golden hair.' Eh, well, her 
hair is golden, and there is a very fine crop of it." 

The young fellow’s cheek crimsoned, but not with 
shame ; his eyes shone with pride and pleasure. 

“ Now, is she not the most beautiful girl you ever 
beheld?" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. 

'‘No; certainly not, " was the unexpected rejoinder. 
" My experience in such matters is probably wider than 
yours; but apart from that, I hold your judgment — I 
mean, of course, only as regards comparison — faulty." 

“You think my Cousin Ruth more beautiful," said 
Lawrence quickly. 

“Well, I had no intention of becoming so personal," 
answered the other gravely; “but that is certainly my 
opinion. However, Miss Kitty is beautiful enough for 
anybody. Are you engaged to her?" 

The plainness of the question staggered the young 
fellow. “Well, no, not exactly," he answered hesitat- 
ingly; then, very earnestly, “but I hope to be some 
day — it is the dream of my life. I hope to Heaven she 
will be my wife." 

“That complicates matters, my friend — I mean as 
regards your future — very much," returned the other 
gravely. “ It is giving hostages to fortune, indeed. 
A prisoner, wishing to escape from poverty and home- 
lessness, you are thus hampering yourself with a fel- 
low-prisoner, as it were, who can make no effort on her 
own behalf. Trenck himself would have shrunk from 
such an outlook." 

“ That is true, indeed. Do you suppose I do not 
understand it?" inquired Lawrence reproachfully. 

“ I think you underrate the difficulties of such an 


Il8 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

enterprise. May I ask if the young lady is equally 
sanguine?” 

“She is not,” answered the young fellow curtly. 
“ Her own unhappy circumstances, which you have 
seen for yourself, and for which there is no remedy, 
have depressed her. She has no hopes either for me 
or for herself.” 

“ Yet she did not seem depressed. ” 

“ She was too proud to appear so in your presence ; 
but her life, so full of sordid surroundings, is hateful 
to her. If I could only lift her out of the quagmire, 
and set her on firm ground! But what you are think- 
ing, I know,” he added, bitterly, “is that we are more 
likely to sink together.” 

To this remark Sir Charles made no reply; and his 
silence was significant enough. 

“And what is Mr. Salesby’s view?” 

“ Well — it is not of much consequence, you will say 
— but it is favorable.” 

“ He reflects that you have a gi'andfather. ” 

“Yes. He thinks I may pull off the long odds, as he 
would express it; but I am well aware there is not the 
remotest chance of it. My uncle Robert will stand 
between me and all benefits from that quarter. I have 
nothing to hope for save from my pen.” 

“ A sorry instrument, even though it be a steel one, 
to open that oyster the world with,” replied the baro- 
net. “Well, well, we must not be discouraged. You 
must pick out your chef s-d' oeuvres — ‘ prose and worse, ’ a§ 
Jerrold called them — and I will send them to "an editor 
I know, who will at least give me his opinion about 
them.” 

“You are most kind,” exclaimed Lawrence, with ef- 


THE JUDICIOUSNESS OF FIFTY. II9 

fusion; then, suddenly, ‘^but I hope the opinion will 
be an honest one. I mean not merely to please me — 
or, rather, to please you. That would be a cruel kind- 
ness. ’’ 

The color came into Sir Charles’s face, and he was 
silent for a moment. Perhaps he had had some idea 
of bespeaking an encouraging verdict. “Well, my good 
fellow,” he answered, with a cheery smile, “it will sig- 
nify nothing to you what the editor says if his opinion 
is unfavorable, for you will not believe one word of it. 
No young genius ever does. On the other hand, if he 
accepts your contributions he will pay you for them, 
which is better than all the criticism in the world.” 

“You do not really think that,” said Lawrence doubt- 
fully. 

“ I am putting myself in your place. I should think 
that, if I were you. Indeed, I am not sure whether it 
is not so in the abstract absolutely. Of course, any 
critic worthy of the name recognizes rubbish as worth- 
less; but when there is merit how can he recognize that 
in a work in a single reading, as the man does who has 
spent weeks and months over it? It is true I am no 
guide to letters ; but in a parallel case, that of our own 
nature, I am well convinced — notwithstanding all saws 
to the contrary — that we know ourselves far better than 
those who call themselves judges of character can know 
us. We have ten times as much interest in the matter, 
and a hundred times the data to begin with.” 

“ That is a new view to me, ” said Lawrence. Indeed, 
very many of his companion’s sentiments were new to 
him. The man himself was a study, and surprised 
him in many ways. His grace of manner and the kind- 
ness he exhibited toward himself were no doubt factors 


120 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


in his admiration; nor (though this counted far less 
with him) did his great social position go for nothing. 
But what most attracted him was the originality and 
naturalness of the other’s talk. He had only known 
one man — of a very different kind, however — whose in- 
dividuality had similarly impressed him ; his old tutor 
Mr. Percy. 

They got home in time for luncheon, at which only 
Miss Jane, Mrs. Merridew and Ruth were present. 
The master of the house never put in an appearance at 
that time, and Mrs. Robert, overcome by her extraor- 
dinary exertions of the previous evening, was indis- 
posed, and required the attentions of her devoted hus- 
band. Miss Jane herself, at the conclusion of the meal, 
went off as she expressed it, to “ look after” her sister- 
in-law, declining to accept Ruth’s services, which were 
offered for that purpose. 

‘‘I trust your aunt is not seriously indisposed,” he 
said to her, in a tone that was capable of being trans- 
lated in earnest or in jest. He knew the character of 
Mrs. Robert’s invalidism, but wanted to discover 
whether Ruth was inclined to be plain with him or not. 

“There is not much amiss with Mrs. Robert,” an- 
swered the girl frankly. “ I wish I could say as much 
for my other aunt.” 

“You mean your Aunt Jerry — that is, Mrs. Lock,” 
added the baronet hastily. “ I owe both you and her 
an apology: but the fact is, Lawrence and I have be- 
come such friends that I have fallen into his way of 
speaking.” 

“He would be pleased to know it,” she answered 
graciously, “and I am sure Aunt Jerry would not be 
displeased at your calling her by her familiar name. 


THE JUDICIOUSNESS OF FIFTY. 


I2I 


She is one of the kindest creatures on earth, as well as 
one of the most harmless, and she is in very delicate 
health, I regret to say.” 

“ I am sorry for that. Lawrence, too, spoke of her 
to me with equal warmth.” 

“I am glad of that; it was good of him — that is, I 
mean,” she continued, with a blush, ‘‘young men do 
not always take the trouble to perceive the merits of 
an old woman.” 

“ Not so much as of a young one, at all events,” ob- 
served Sir Charles, smiling. To this Ruth made no 
reply. Was it possible, he wondered, that the girl was 
piqued at Lawrence’s indifference to her, or was even 
aware of his affections being otherwise engaged? It 
was worth his while to discover this. 

“We have been a long walk over your beautiful 
country,” he resumed. “I had no idea that Hillsland 
had such attractions.” 

“ The whole table-land above the village is glorious,” 
she assented. 

“ And the village itself is so picturesque,” he added. 
“ Indeed, one house, at which we called, seemed a little 
too picturesque: not, indeed, from an artist’s point of 
view, but a landlord’s. It was my old friend, Mr. 
Salesby’s — ‘The Corner,’ as he calls it.” 

“ Ah, that is a sad business. The poor man, they 
say, is on the road to ruin, though, I fear, by his own 
fault. What makes the thing so pitiable is that he has 
a daughter.” 

“ Yes, I saw her to-day: a very pretty girl.” 

“To my mind she is much more than that; a most 
graceful and charming girl.” 

“ Do you really think her charming?” 


122 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


“ So far as looks go, yes. I have never seen her 
equal. I scarcely know anything of her besides her 
looks. She feels her father’s position — and, indeed, 
her own — I fancy, very keenly, and that makes her 
disinclined for acquaintanceship. None of us see any- 
thing of her, poor thing.” Sir Charles thought of Law- 
rence’s infatuation for the girl (for so it seemed to him), 
and could not restrain a smile. “You are thinking, 
perhaps,” added Ruth, with a little blush, “that we 
have made no effort to be friendly ; but, indeed, I have 
done what I could. She seems to resent any sym- 
pathy. ” 

“ I am sure you have done your best, ” said Sir Charles, 
earnestly. “ I was very far from thinking otherwise.” 

“ She reminds me of Hillsland Beck, which you 
crossed on the moor to-day — 

‘ With each cross and fall the prouder, 

Like a proud man growing poor. ’ ” 

“ A pretty metaphor, and a true one,” observed Sir 
Charles; “ but the lines are unfamiliar to me.” 

“This is not surprising,” she answered, smiling; 
“they were written by Lawrence.” 

“And on Miss Kate?” he inquired. 

“Not that I am aware of,” she answered, laughing 
this time outright. “ He writes on most things, but I 
don’t think he has yet immortalized either me or Miss 
Salesby. ” 

“ So far as my judgment goes,” returned Sir Charles, 
without betraying his secret amusement at this proof 
of ignorance, “ he writes very well. He is to give me 
some specimens of his genius to-day, and I have prom- 
ised to do what I can to get them into print.” 


THE JUDICIOUSNESS OF FIFTY. 1 23 

‘‘That is kind of you, indeed,” she murmured ear- 
nestly. “ If he could only get a little encouragement, 
poor fellow, he might do something for himself. I 
feel, though, alas, I know nothing about such matters, 
that he has a great deal of talent.” 

“ That is just my feeling, and also my state of igno- 
rance,” said the other gravely. 

“ But you are not ignorant ; and you have power and 
influence. Oh, if you cou/d help him to help himself! 
He is not happy here, at all.” 

“ He ought to be,” returned Sir Charles, with a little 
bow. She waved her hand as if to put away a compli- 
ment out of place. Her look was serious, and even sad. 

” If you only knew his position here, you would think 
he had good cause to be unhappy. And then the alter- 
native — that dreadful clerkship at Singapore, for which 
he is so unfitted, and the thought of which is hateful to 
him. If he could only maintain himself in England, 
how thankful I should be!” 

“If I had not been interested in Lawrence before,” 
said Sir Charles earnestly, “the knowledge that you 
feel so warmly for him would enlist my best endeav- 
ors.” The color rushed to the girl’s cheeks. A less 
intelligent or a vainer man would have set her emotion 
down to his own account, but the baronet translated it 
aright. Ruth had blushed, not at his willingness to 
serve her, but at the affection he had imputed to her 
for her cousin. 

“ She is in love with him,” was his quick conclusion, 
“ and he is not in love with her.” It would have been 
easy to disenchant her by letting her understand that 
he was in love with somebody else. Then her affection 
would be free to settle elsewhere. . But this he hesi- 


124 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


tated to do, for the very reason that would have caused 
some men to take that course — because he himself re- 
garded her with such tenderness. It could not, as yet, 
at all events, he said that he was in love with Ruth. It 
was not only her beauty that attracted him : her unsel- 
fishness, her frankness, her defiance of the domestic ty- 
rants before whom poor Mrs. Merridew and Aunt Jerry 
crouched in fear, filled him with admiration. She 
might find out for herself — as indeed she would surely 
do — the true state of affairs; but he would not be the 
one to awaken her from ‘‘Love’s fond dream.” A 
chivalrous resolve enough, but at the same time he did 
not forget that the messenger of such ill tidings would 
therein be far from recommending himself to her. The 
lover of fifty is said to be more vehement of purpose 
than he of twenty-five, but he is also more judicious in 
the manner of his wooing. 


CHAPTER XVL 


AN ERROR IN A TELEGRAM. 

The noblest study of mankind may be man, but it is 
certainly the most difficult. The ex-commissioner’s 
character was read pretty accurately by his son, who 
had given great pains to the study of it ; but there were 
schemes going on in that bald pate under the skull-cap 
of which he knew nothing. And on the other hand, 
though the old gentleman knew his son to be not only 
self-seeking and unscrupulous, but somewhat risky in 
his method of gaining his ends, he had hardly a suspi- 
cion of the desperate recklessness of which he was 
capable. Though both suspected the other’s weakness 
(because it was common to them), neither had any con- 
ception of its extent. They transacted business to- 
gether — the old man’s business — almost daily, but now 
and then it crossed Robert’s mind that he did not pos- 
sess his father’s confidence — that something of impor- 
tance was kept back from him. He himself professed 
to have no business; his wife’s money sufficed for him 
until in fulness of time he should receive the inheri- 
tance due to him by birth, and earned by filial duty of 
late days. But, even when in conference with his father, 
Robert had of late shown himself distrait and somewhat 
neglectful of the matter in hand. ‘‘You are thinking 
of something else,” complained the old gentleman with 
irritation, as they sat in the study together, talking of 

125 


126 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


leases and repairs. ‘‘ What maggot have you got in your 
head now?’' 

“ My wife is ill, sir.” 

“I never knew her otherwise,” was the unsympa- 
thetic reply. “ It is a great nuisance it should be so 
while Sir Charles is with us, since it leaves no one to 
do the honors.” This was rather an unreasonable com- 
plaint, for, as we know, the speaker had no high opin- 
ion of the lady in question as a hostess. 

“Sir Charles gets on well enough,” returned Mr. 
Robert with a sneer. “ He seems to find an interest in 
Lawrence’s society which to me is inexplicable. The 
boy was conceited enough before, and this will turn his 
head.” 

“ His head will be turned toward Singapore before 
the year’s out,” replied the other indifferently, “so 
that matters nothing. The question of more conse- 
quence is: is Sir Charles interested in Ruth?” 

“ Yes; Jane is distinctly of opinion that he is. They 
talk together, she tells me, upon poetry and such like, 
which it seems is a good sign. If the girl had the right 
sort of wits, she could easily lure him, or at all events 
put him in a position where I could bring him to book.” 

“ I don’t understand you, Robert,” exclaimed the old 
gentleman hotly. “ That is not the way to speak of 
my son Cyril’s — your eldest brother’s — daughter. Do 
you suppose that I wish Ruth to figure in an action for 
breach of promise?” 

“Well, it would never come to that, of course; but 
if Sir Charles inclines to play fast and loose with her, 
I think he should be made to pay for it. It would be 
only right — and also most particularly convenient.” 

The last words had probably some reference to what 


AN ERROR IN A TELEGRAM. 


127 


they had been talking of before, for the other answered, 
irascibly enough, indeed, but not contentiously : 

At all events, see that our guest has his own way 
in this house. Though it may not chime in with your 
notions if he has taken a fancy to Lawrence, don’t put 
a spoke in the lad’s wheel by giving Sir Charles a bad 
opinion of him; and don’t let Mr. Arthur Grubby show 
his nose here again while Sir Charles is with us. He 
has not been here since, has he?” added the old gentle- 
man sharply. 

“No, sir; he has gone to the Derby, which, as you 
know, is run to-day.” 

“ I know nothing about the Derby. Horse-racing is 
a low and demoralizing pursuit. In India our Cheroot 
Sweepstakes ” 

Here there was a knock at the door. 

“A telegram for you, sir,” said the servant, handing 
the yellow envelope to his master. The ex-commis- 
sioner knitted his brows at the superscription : “ Strat- 
ton, Hillsland. ” He did not like his name and address 
to be thus abbreviated for the sake of three half-pence. 

“This is a cursed piece of impertinence,” he ex- 
claimed, when he had possessed himself of the contents. 
“‘Ganymede for ever, Grueby. ’ What the deuce does 
the blackguard mean?” 

“ I think the message must have been meant for me, 
sir,” suggested Mr. Robert. Notwithstanding the mis- 
take, and the wrath that it had aroused in his father’s 
mind, the squire’s tone was cheerful, and even buoy- 
ant. 

“ But what does it mean ? I say,” exclaimed the old 
man savagely. “Who is Ganymede?” 

“Well, I suppose it’s the winner of the Derby. 


128 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


Grueby is a foolish fellow, who thinks everybody has 
the same tastes as himself, and so he telegraphs what 
he considers will be interesting information.” 

‘‘I don’t believe it. Grneby would not spend six- 
pence to please anybody. You told him to do it, sir.” 

“I may have done so,” said Robert indifferently; 
“ but if so it has escaped my recollection. ' It was very 
idiotic of him not to have addressed the thing more dis- 
tinctly.” 

“ Idiotic? He must have been drunk!” cried the old 
gentleman. 

“ It is rather early in the afternoon for ///^/,” said Mr. 
Robert, smiling, but in his heart he though it not im- 
possible that the excitement of having pulled off a 
good thing” might have been supplemented, in his 
friend’s case, by a bottle of champagne at some other 
winner’s expense. 

‘‘I don’t like it,” exclaimed the ex-commissioner, in 
that judicial and condemnatory tone before which many 
a dark-hued native had trembled. “ It looks to me as 
though there was some discreditable transaction in 
which you and he were both interested — gambling, 
sir.” 

“You display your usual acumen,” observed Mr. 
Robert frankly, “ though m a matter scarcely worth its 
exercise. If you will carry your mind back to the 
night when Mr. Grueby dined with us, you may remem- 
ber that he talked of having a few crowns on Gany- 
mede, of which he offered me a share. He seems to 
be almost out of his mind at the success of our little 
speculation. I believe I am the richer for it by five 
pounds.” 

“If that is all — and you have won,” put in the old 


AN ERROR IN A TELEGRAM. 


129 


gentleman naively, “ there is not much to be said ; but 
you know how I abhor gambling of all kinds.” 

Mr. Robert nodded. He would like to have been 
able to say with confidence I know it,” but he was not 
so sure about that matter as he wished to be. He had 
an uneasy suspicion that the governor ^‘dabbled” in 
things that did not always turn out Ganymedes. The 
rest of their interview was much more agreeable than 
at one time it had promised to be. Mr. Robert was more 
dutiful in his manner even than usual, and found more 
frequent occasions to admire his father’s sagacity. He 
spoke of the pleasure Sir Charles had derived from his 
inspection of the ex-commissioner’s Indian treasures. 
“ I can hardly get him to talk of anything else.” 

‘‘ Really, now, indeed!” said the old gentleman, emit- 
ting little purrs of satisfaction, that alternated with the 
hubble-bubble of his pipe. Which do you think took 
his fancy most?” 

“ I think the tulwar of the Rajah of Bundlecumbad ; 
the scabbard he described as a triumph of Eastern deco- 
ration.” 

‘‘ If I have a favorite relic of the gorgeous East it is 
that tulwar,” murmured the old gentleman. 

Still, when their talk was over, Mr. Robert was more 
glad than usual to get away. He did not look so cast 
down about his wife as he had done, and instead of 
going straight to her sick room, as might have been 
expected, he took up his hat and walked into the vil- 
lage. “ Of course it’s all right,” he muttered gayly to 
himself; ‘‘but I’ll just look in at Salesby’s, and get the 
news confirmed.” 

. It was not a small matter that could bring a smile 
that was not a sneering one into Robert Stratton’s face; 

9 


130 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


but it wore one now. It was not likely that he would 
find Mr. Richard Salesby in such high spirits, because 
he had always said that Ganymede was “ not the horse 
for his money;’' but he was sure to have had a “ wire” 
from Epsom, whether the news was bad or good. 

As the squire drew near “the Corner,” he perceived 
its proprietor leaning over the garden gate in talk with 
Lawrence. His brow grew dark in a moment; he 
hated to see grown men talking to the boy as if he 
were their equal, and even, as in this case, treating 
him with a certain consideration. Aware of this, and 
reciprocating the other’s dislike of his society, Law- 
rence began to move away as the squire drew near. 

“What are you flitting for, lad?” inquired Mr. 
Salesby. 

“Oh, don’t want him,” exclaimed Mr. Robert, 
who had just come within earshot; “let him go.” 

“Speak for yourself, squire, not for me,” returned 
the other roughly. “ Somebody else wants him here, 
if I don’t. You speak to Master Lorry as if, instead 
of being your own kith and kin, he was your dog; he 
ain’t your pet dog, that’s certain.” And the speaker 
laughed with that full appreciation of his bon mot that is 
felt by a man who very seldom makes one. 

Lorry was not yet out of hearing, which did not tend 
to smooth the squire’s temper; but it was obviously 
injudicious to quarrel with his sporting friend till he 
had furnished him with the information of which he 
was in search. 

“ I am glad to see you in a joking mood, Mr. Salesby, 
this afternoon. I was afraid, perhaps, that the news 
from Epsom might have cast you down a bit.” 

“ Thank you, squire, I strive to stand up against it,” 


AN ERROR IN A TELEGRAM. I31 

returned the other with a wave of his hand ; but even 
as he spoke he slipped and almost belied his words by 
coming to the ground. Loosing his hold upon the gate 
to indulge in gesticulation had been an imprudence ; 
the fact was, Mr. Salesby was drunk. Mr. Robert per- 
ceived it without the regret that should have been 
aroused by such discovery; indeed, he was rather glad 
of it, because it corroborated his telegram. Mr. Salesby, 
as he knew, had never been a believer in Ganymede, 
and the tidings of that animal’s victory must have been 
bad news to him. To “ keep his spirits up” he had no 
doubt been “po.uring spirits down.” 

“When did you get the wire?” inquired Mr. Robert, 
ignoring, with a fine sense of delicacy, the other’s con- 
dition. 

“Not half an hour ago,” answered the other, with 
vsome indistinctness. “Where’s Sir Charles, where’s 
Kitty, where’s everybody? I want to tell ’em about it.” 

“Well, tell said the squire cheerfully. 

Mr. Salesby fumbled in his breast-pocket, and after 
a considerably longer time than it had taken in trans- 
mission, produced his telegram. 

“ Let me read it!” cried Mr. Robert, with outstretched 
hand. 

“ No you don’t,” answered the other, drawing it back 
with a lurch that made the gate swing and him with 
it. “ Every gentleman gives a public reading of his 
own telegram; all others are — what’s the word?” 

“Imitations,” suggested Mr. Robert. 

“ Not at all, sir. Much worse than that. All others 
are frau — frau — fraudulent. If you read it, for in- 
stance,” said Mr. Salesby, with a gleam of humor, “it 
would sure to be fraudulent. Now listen; silence in 


132 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


the pit, silence in the gal. By-the-bye, where the deuce 
is the gal? Lawrence can’t find her, I can’t find her. 
Kit, Kit, Kit!” and here Mr. Salesby gave a really ad- 
mirable imitation of one whose favorite cat has in youth 
strayed from his hearth, and who seeks to recover it by 
blandishments. 

“Will you be kind enough to read the telegram?” 
observed the squire, with that unnatural calmness of 
tone which is the immediate herald of an outbreak of 
temper. 

“Suttingly, sir. Tip, Tip, Tippitiwitchit. Devilish 
good horse. Tip, though with much too long a mane, 
I mean name. Tippity first — that’s my horse. Salt 
Fish second ; Parsnips next — which is just as it should 
be ; and then that very over-rated animal, as I always 
told you, Ganymede. The rest not placed.” 

“That’s all lies, the whole of it,” exclaimed the 
squire furiously. “ Ganymede has won the race. I 
have a telegram from Grueby to say so. ” 

“Let me look at it,” cried Salesby, roused to con- 
sciousness and even intelligence, by this amazing state- 
ment. 

“ There you see, it’s clear enough,” insisted Mr. Rob- 
ert. ‘Ganymede for ever.’ That must mean that he 
has won. What else can it mean?” 

Mr. Salesby burst out laughing. “Well, it means 
that the passon’s drunk. Dreadful thing, drink, in a 
passon. What he meant to write was: ‘Ganymede 
four, ’ for fourth he is, and no mistake about it ; only 
his scrawl was so shaky that the telegraph clerk thought 
it was ‘for ever.’ There, come in and take a sup of 
whiskey,” he added, with a touch of sympathy. “You 
look down in the mouth, squire.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 

The poet tells us that A sorrow’s crown of sorrows 
is remembering happier things.” But even a bard's 
experience is limited. If he had been connected with 
the turf, he would probably have placed the losing of 
a huge sum of money, when he thought he had “ pulled 
off” a still larger one, at the summit of human woes. 
This was precisely what had happened to Mr. Robert 
Stratton. He had stood to win twenty thousand pounds 
on Ganymede (for, unlike his confederate Mr. Grueby, 
he didn’t bet in half-crowns), and fondly imagined he 
had done it; whereas Ganymede had in fact lost him 
five thousand pounds. Only one person in the world 
had the least suspicion of the magnitude of his “ trans- 
actions” in horse-flesh ; but when he refused Mr. Sales- 
by’s offer of liquid refreshment and strode away with 
something very like a curse, that gentleman’s suspi- 
cions were excited. A man must be very hard hit, 
indeed, he thought, to turn his back upon old whiskey — 
a thing he had never done himself under the most un- 
toward circumstances. He might have invoked his 
bottle in (almost) the same words as the lover of music 
addressed to his pianoforte : — 

“ Dear friend, whom grave or gay we seek, 
Heaven-holding shrine, 

I pull thy cork and hear it squeak, 

And peace is mine. 

133 


134 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


No fairy casket full of bliss 
Outvalues thee ; 

Love only, wakened with a kiss, 

More sweet may be.” 

As he leaned over his garden gate and watched the 
squire’s retreating form this rustic moralist shook his 
head. He had won a good stake on Tippitiwitchit, 
and could afford to pity a fellow-creature. Beside his 
winnings, Mr. Salesby had another subject for satisfac- 
tion that morning; not, indeed, a very solid one, but 
which had been at all events “ an excuse for a glass.” 
He dwelt upon it now in a dreamy, not to say a boozy 
way, and winked and winked again over it with extraor- 
dinary sagacity ; and this, too, led his cheerful mind to 
pity. “ Poor Lorry, what a dog’s life the squire leads 
him! He’ll be harder upon him than ever now that he 
has to fork out a pot of money. It is not two-and-six- 
pence that he has lost this time. I’ll bet a penny. The 
lad’s chance of getting anything out of that oriental 
old scarecrow will be next to nothing. And I don’t 
envy the passon, neither, when he comes back and the 
squire has a word to say to him about that telegram : 
‘Ganymede for ever.’ Grueby will never beat that if 
he lives to be a hundred.” And Mr. Salesby gave him- 
self up to such uncontrollable merriment as threatened 
to tear the garden gate from its solitary hinge. 

The circumstance in question affected Mr. Robert 
Stratton in a very different manner. He shook, but 
certainly not with mirth; and, though Mr. Grueby was 
more particularly in his thoughts, he swore at large. 
His loss, great as it was, had come upon the back of 
other losses, which he had fondly hoped his venture 
upon Ganymede would have recouped. Nor had they 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 


135 


been half-crown losses, as Mr. Salesbyhad called them. 
He could not settle this debt of honor without appeal- 
ing for help to his father or to his wife, who were 
equally ignorant of his speculations. The ex-commis- 
sioner was not one who parted with his money very 
readily, even for the best of objects. If his purse was 
long, his temper was short. As for Mrs. Robert, her 
money had been settled on her and her children by a 
prudent father, though it would revert to her husband 
in case of her dying childless. The squire, as Mr. 
Salesby would have expressed it, was “in a hole,’* and 
he could see but one way out of it, such as only des- 
peration could suggest. It was a wicked way, and also 
exceedingly dangerous. As he walked on with rapid 
but aimless steps, slashing the weeds and ferns with 
his walking-stick, as if he were cutting off men’s heads, 
he came upon Lawrence, sitting on a stile with a pipe 
in his mouth, and looking very glum. 

“What are you doing there, you idle young devil?” 
he inquired stormfully. 

“ Smoking!” 

“ If you give me any of your infernal impudence I’ll 
cut your heart out!” cried the squire, raising his stick. 

Lawrence thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out 
an enormous clasp-knife, and opened it with a click. 
It was plain that he was prepared for “reciprocity” in 
hearts, and that Uncle Robert would come under the 
“ most favored nation ” clause. 

“ What is that for?” inquired the squire. Not that 
he cared, but because, notwithstanding his fury, he 
shrank from precipitating matters. 

“ Whittling,” replied Lawrence, and he produced a 
hunch of bread and cheese. 


136 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


The witticism was thrown away upon the other, but 
not the coolness with which it was uttered. He was no 
coward, but it had suddenly struck him that the pres- 
ent was a very ill-chosen time for a row with his younger 
relative, however successful might be the issue. Such 
violence should not go unpunished, but vengeance is a 
dish that can be eaten cold. 

“ Where is Sir Charles?” he inquired curtly. 

“ I don’t know.” 

“But it is your business to know, sir. As I have 
already told you, you are placed at his disposal to make 
his stay agreeable to him.” 

“I am not in his service, nor in yours,” returned 
Lawrence coldly. “ As a matter of fact, however, 
when I went to look for him, as usual, this afternoon, 
I found he had gone out — I suppose, over the hill.” 

The squire nodded, by no means affably, and took 
the direction indicated. He had only a vague purpose 
in so doing ; but in the desperation of his loss it had 
occurred to him that the baronet might lend him money. 
At all events he had the power to do so, which was 
something. Five thousand pounds to him was like five 
thousand pence to another man. Nevertheless he had 
a suspicion that the other did not like him, and things 
were hardly so advanced between Ruth and their visitor 
as to incline Sir Charles to do him so great a favor on 
the ground of future relationship. He walked for miles 
upon the moorland without meeting with any one; face 
to face only with his dark and dismal thoughts. At 
last, when after a long circuit he had turned toward 
home, his far-sweeping glance fell on the man he 
sought. He was a great way off, close indeed to Hills- 
land, but he knew it was Sir Charles by his light sum- 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 


137 


mer suit; and Ruth was with him. Even while he 
gazed, the pair had entered the last pine-grove beneath 
which lay the village. He could hardly have come up 
with them before they reached home, even if he had 
tried ; but he had now no desire to do so. He had, 
indeed, lost the opportunity for which he sought; but 
his chance in the future was greatly bettered. Since 
Ruth and Sir Charles were walking alone together it 
was plain that their courtship had got on apace. What 
convinced him that the love affair was ripening was 
that when he next caught sight of Sir Charles he was 
walking alone toward the Hall. Ruth without doubt 
had parted from him on the way to avoid any comment 
that might have been made upon their coming home 
together. 

Before Sir Charles reached home, he overtook his 
young friend strolling in the same direction. 

“Hullo, my lad, ” he exclaimed cheerily, “you look 
as if the rhymes didn’t come luckily this morning. 
What’s the matter?” 

“ Nothing; if I am dull it was because I missed your 
companionship. I found you had left the house when I 
looked into your sitting-room this afternoon as usual.” 

“Yes, I had a headache, and knowing you were hard 
at work with your writing, I thought I would take a 
walk over the hill. Where have you been? But, there, 
I need not ask?” 

“If you mean with Kitty, you are mistaken,” an- 
swered Lawrence, with a blush. “I did call at ‘The 
Corner, ’ but as it happened she was out — gone into the 
vale, her father said, about some poultry. He is in 
high feather this morning because he had won on the 
Derby.” 


138 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

“ So Miss Kate may be an heiress after all, eh?” 

Lawrence shook his head. The subject was too ten- 
der for a jest. “ I had meant to tell her how kind and 
helpful you had been to me,” he said. 

“You had better wait for that till something has 
come of my endeavors,” observed Sir Charles. “I 
ought to have heard from our editor before this. He 
has had plenty of time to read the MSS. I sent him.” 

“Perhaps they have cast him into a deep sleep,” 
murmured Lawrence ruefully. 

“ One good turn deserves another. In that case he 
ought to send you ‘a refresher.’ Come, I should like to 
know what are your expectations?” 

“ Expectations? Indeed I have none — only hopes. 
A five pound note would satisfy my highest aspira- 
tions,” 

They had entered the garden, and Sir Charles was 
making for a summer-house, which, after his long walk, 
seemed a convenient spot to pursue their conversation. 

“That is a very modest figure,” he said, “at which 
to appraise such a mass of MSS. If it comes to no 
more than that I should recommend your giving up lit- 
erature as a bad job, and appealing to the old Mum- 
my ” 

As he said the words Sir Charles found himself oppo- 
site Miss Jane, who, sitting in the arbor with an im- 
proving book on her lap, had most certainly overheard 
them. 

“ I must really ask your pardon,” he continued, with 
his sweetest smile, “ for applying such an epithet as I 
have just used to any relative of yours; but my young 
friend here so often calls Mrs. Merridew ‘the Mummy’ 
(meaning his mamma), or even ‘the old Mummy,’ that 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 


139 


when talking with him I have — quite inexcusably — 
fallen into the way of it.” 

It was ‘‘magnificent,” and, if not exactly the truth — 
indeed, splendide mendax would have been a fit quotation 
for it — it had some soup^on of truth about it. Lawrence 
did sometimes call his mother ‘the Mummy’ for love 
and euphony; but as an example of presence of mind 
on the very verge of a catastrophe Sir Charles’s coup was 
perfection ; and in that light alone it struck Lawrence. 

He not only recognized the fact that Miss Jane would 
never have forgiven his friend for speaking of her 
father so disrespectfully, but that it would have opened 
her eyes to the alliance^ established between himself 
and the baronet against the Hall authorities. His 
gratitude and sense of relief therefore, when he saw 
his aunt’s grim face relax — for the familiarity taken, 
as she supposed, with her sister by no means displeased 
her — and the puckers of her mouth form themselves 
into its ordinary wintry smile, were overwhelming. It 
did not occur to him at the time that such exceeding 
readiness of defence must have owed something to a 
habit of duplicity. 

If Mr. Robert had been by and heard the baronet go 
on to ask after Miss Ruth as if he knew nothing of 
what had been that young lady’s movements for the 
afternoon, he would have formed a different impression 
of him. It was no doubt a praiseworthy satisfaction 
that Sir Charles took to hoodwinking Aunt Jane, but 
he certainly accomplished it with admirable skill. Even 
the severe Calvinistic volume^ which had formed the 
subject of her outdoor studies, and of which she frankly 
expressed her conviction that it was not much in Sir 
Charles’s way, came in for its share of eulogy. A theo- 


140 ^ A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

logical discussion, in which he took care not to be the 
victor, brought down the curtain, save for a tag, spoken 
by the vanquished to his companion, after he had left 
the lady’s presence, “ That woman, my dear Lawrence, 
has made a religion for herself out of the worst parts 
of Christianity.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE HONORARIUM. 

‘‘ I HAVE got something for you whiicli came by post 
this evening,’' said Sir Charles to Lawrence, as he took 
his seat and a cigar in the latter’s room that night. 

“Something from Mr. Latham?” inquired the boy 
eagerly. His face was flushed with excitement; his 
hand trembled as he poured out his friend’s coffee for 
him. Mr. Latham was the London editor with whom 
the other had been in correspondence on his behalf. 

“Yes; he sent you this,” and he tossed a sealed enve- 
lope across to him. 

“A letter. That is most kind of him.” 

“ No. I wish it was, and that he had sent me the 
other thing. He has written me a letter as long as 
my arm.” 

“O Sir Charles, this is too much!” Lawrence was 
holding in his hand what had certainly never been 
there before — a ten pound note. His eyes were full of 
wonder and gratitude and joy. It was the first money 
he had ever earned — which of itself is bliss, but he 
also beheld in it the promise of future fortune— the 
means of livelihood assured and with it happiness and 
hope and Kitty. That almost transparent piece of 
paper, with its delicate water-mark and cabalistic fig- 
ures, was like the gift of some good magician in a fairy- 
tale which endowed its possessor with all the wishes he 

141 


142 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


longs for. It was the happiest moment of the young 
fellow’s life. 

Sir Charles regarded him with a humorous smile. 

“Too much!” he echoed smilingly. “That’s a re- 
markable observation for a contributor to make upon a 
honorarium. It’s a lucky thing that Latham can’t hear 
it. He would not be likely, if he did, to make such an 
error again, nor— on the other hand — is it probable that 
you will give him*a second chance. ‘Only this?’ is the 
remark you will make next time, and ‘Not enough!’ 
the next after. The appetite of the literary aspirant 
grows by what it feeds on. What seems ample to-day 
is insufficient to-morrow. I look forward with pleasure 
to the epoch of your dissatisfaction, which is as sure to 
come as daybreak.” 

“ At all events. Sir Charles, I shall always be grate- 
ful for this^'' returned the lad with emotion; “first to 
you, and then to Mr. Latham.” 

“ There is no reason for gratitude to either of us, my 
dear boy,” answered the other drily. “To be sure I 
might insist upon a commission — and perhaps I may — 
but otherwise I am simply the intermediary. As for 
Latham, so far as he is concerned, the affair is a mere 
matter of business. We should never waste what are 
called ‘ our better feelings, ’ but reserve them for some 
occasion worthy of them, and which their exhibition is 
calculated to improve. ” 

“ Did Mr. Latham write anything to you about my — • 
the — what you were good enough to send him?” 

“ Your MSS. ? Why, of course he did. You’ve got the 
pith of the matter there. But if you care to hear his 
criticisms — they are not all mignonette and sweetbriar, 
however ” 


THE HONORARIUM. 


143 


‘‘To me they would be priceless, interrupted the 
young fellow. 

“ Well, they are so in one sense, no doubt; it’s advice 
gratis. I’ll read you what he says with pleasure. 

^ Dear Walden: — You must, mdeed, be ahnost bored to 
death,' Oh, that’s nothing. ' 1 never knew literature to be in 
your line before,' Oh, that’s nothing. find you interest- 

ing yourself about other people, ’ Confound his impudence ; 
where does he begin about the manuscripts? — oh, here it is: 
‘ Your young friend's best things are his poems — which at first 
sight, considering his 7ieeds, would seem to be unfortunate, but 
it is not really so; for out of the young poet almost always 
grows the good prose writer. In the pictures called “ In the 
Train," that of the'' Mother and Middy" is capital,' lam 
ashamed to say I forget it, Lawrence. Repeat, recite.” 

With a blush of modesty the boy quoted his poem: 

“ ‘ A widowed mother with her boy : 

One that parts with her last joy 
With steady hand and tearless eye. 

And e’en finds speech for her ‘ good-by.’ 

Grief and she are too old friends 
For least mistrust of the good ends 
To which all trial, God-sent, tends. 

By the voice that seems as though 
Musicless it could not flow. 

By the grace that doth appear 
Still about her silvering hair. 

By the fingers delicate, 

(Wealth or ease was once her mate) 

By the weeds so worn and coarse. 

Theirs has been a long divorce. ’ ” 

“That’s good. I remember the description of the 
boy,” interposed Sir Charles, a little hastily. He was 
afraid of being bored, and still more afraid of showing 


144 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


it. ‘‘ He was a good-plucked one, just what a middy 
should be. Now let’s hear the conclusion.” 

‘ Boy and mother of that race 
Meeting peril face to face ; 

Firm to friends and firm to foes, 

On whose cheek nor comes nor goes, 

For shame nor fear, the blood-red rose ; 

Calm of eye and clear of head — 

English born and English bred. ’ ” 

“ ’Fon my life, that ought to bring down the house, 
Lawrence, or at all events, the gallery. You deserve a 
pension for patriotic song, like Dibden. ” 

As a general rule young poets (and also old ones) do 
not like being chaffed about their Muse; but there are 
different ways of doing it, and that of Sir Charles 
was a very pleasant way. Lawrence well understood 
that it was solely for his own sake, and not at all for 
any pleasure derived from his verses, that Sir Charles 
was so patient a listener ; and yet he was grateful to 
him — which showed him to be, if not a poet, something 
more. - 

What I like next best^' says Latham, ^ is your young 
friend's description of the choice of a profession. The Mer- 
chant is good., and the Yeoman is good., but the Soldier is best 
of all. ’ How does it run, my lad?” 

“ ‘ Merrily clash the cymbals twain 
With an exultant note, 

Stirring sounds doth the trumpet rain 
Adown its brazen throat ; 

Freshly flieth the pennant fair 
From the good lance’s head, 

The stirrup’s clank is blythe to hear, 

Blythe is the charger’s tread. 


THE HONORARIUM. 


145 


Fierce and clear doth the scabbard ring, 

With the sharp sword for guest ; 

But the whirl of the downward swing 
Of that blue blade is best. 

And the tramp of a thousand steeds, 

In thunder and in cloud, 

When the earth is shaken and bleeds, 

Maketh a man’s heart proud — 

More proud than words ever said. 

Aye, than songs ever sung; 

And proudest the hearts, fever-fed. 

Of the brave and the young. ’ ” 

“Now, that has go in it,” exclaimed Sir Charles. 
“What a strange thing it is that one fellow, whose 
heart is in Grub Street, should write like that, and an- 
other should feel it. Set old Latham on a charger and 
he would fall off. He has never had a more deadly 
weapon in his hand than an umbrella; yet he writes of 
that poem justly enough: ‘7/ stirs one's blood. It has 
soniething of the old ballad ring about it,, and is very refresh- 
ing after the triolets and artificialities of the modern Muse. 
It gives 7ne great hopes of him. ' Luckily for you, my dear 
fellow, Latham is old-fashioned. 

‘A Pagan suckled on a creed outworn, ’ 

he believes in Nature. Your ‘ Spring Time ' has 
‘ fetched ’ him. It has even fetched me, so that I re- 
member the opening lines of it: 

“ ‘ Summer’s coming, Winter’s going. 

Sun has set the stream a-flowing ; 

Through our windows, ere we’re waking, 

Out from nests of this month’s making, 

Come the rooks’ caws without number. 

Preaching work’s more sweet than slumber. 

10 


146 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

From the bare branch just set swinging 

By the weight of his up-springing 

Trills the song-bird, ‘I’m in clover!’ ^ 

Spring’s begun and Winter’s over, 

No more blowing, no more snowing, 

Fruit’s a-budding, wheat’s a-growing. ’ ” 

“ It is curious how Spring revives the oldest of us — 
gives a spring to even the most worn-out machine. 
When Cicero tells us that there is no man so old but 
thinks that he will live a year, it is the Spring that 
makes him think so. I dare say you conclude that my 
old bones are dry. ” 

“Indeed,’' continued Lawrence confusedly, “such an 
idea never entered into my mind. ” 

“ That’s because you never thought about it. Com- 
pared with you, no doubt, I seem a centenarian. Well, 
they’re not dry.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

At the time Lawrence saw no reason for those last 
observations of Sir Charles. They embarrassed him ; 
and, moreover, he wanted to hear more of what Mr. 
Latham had written. He knew that Sir Charles was 
not fishing for compliments; that was not at all his 
way. There was a cynical smile upon his lips that 
puzzled him. What he mean? A sudden thought 
flashed upon his mind. Sir Charles was alluding to a 
tenderness which, notwithstanding the difference in 
their years, he entertained for Ruth. Perhaps he 
wished to break this news to him. This idea did not 
please Lawrence. The young always object to any 
amativeness in the old; such resuscitations are dis- 
pleasing to them. They believe in the spring and the 
summer, but not in the Indian summer. Paterfamilias 
should be content to ‘‘go a-wooing in his boys,” and 
not attempt those adventures in his own person. It is 
not decorous in him, and it is greedy. “ He has had 
his -whack,” as it is vulgarly termed, and should be sat- 
isfied with retrospection. 

These were merely general considerations, and would 
not, perhaps, have much affected Lawrence in Sir 
Charles’ case. The baronet, though certainly advanced 
in years, was not at all like an old fogy; it would have 
been permissible to him — or at all events excusable, in 

147 


148 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

his young friend’s view — to have contemplated matri- 
mony with some unknown damsel, however young ; but 
he did not like the notion of his aspiring to the hand 
of Ruth. No suspicion of the kind had ever entered 
into the lad’s head; he had not, of course, been made a 
confidant of the hopes entertained by the authorities 
of the Hall in that direction, and it struck him now 
with a sense of sacrilege. 

Age, it is said, is grasping and selfish; but so is 
youth. In Lawrence’s case, his feelings could only be 
compared with those of the dog in the manger. He 
did not want Ruth for himself. How could he, when 
he had fixed his affections elsewhere? Yet he resented 
the possibility of this man wanting her. It is under- 
stood, or at all events taken for granted, that a man 
cannot be in love with two women at the same time 
and, therefore, a lover has no right to be jealous about 
more than one object. Yet what Lawrence expe- 
rienced as regarded Ruth and this possible suitor of 
hers was, if not jealousy, some feeling extremely like 
it. 

“ Well,” continued Sir Charles, “ after praising your 
poems in this liberal manner, Latham, of course, goes 
on to say (as I forewarned you) that from a commercial 
point of view they are not worth twopence.” 

‘‘Not ////pence,” ejaculated Lawrence sadly, “with 
stress on the first syllable.” 

“Well, he writes it twopence, but that’s what he 
means. ‘If your /rz?//*^/ (forgive me, that is Latham’s 
unpleasant way of putting it) wants to get salt for his 
porridge, he must give up verse-making, which takes 
up valuable time (even if one has a rhyming dictionary) 
and stick to prose. There are only three men in Eng- 


THE INDIAN SUMMER. 


149 


land at this moment who earn enough money by poetry 
to live on it, and Mr. Merridew is not at all likely to 
make the fourth. His sketch of Hillsland, with its 
mixed population of agriculturalists and miners, is very 
good, and I shall be glad to print it in the magazine. ’ 
Latham always speaks of his periodical as if there was 
but one in the world. It is never ‘my magazine, * which 
would imply that there were others, but Hhe magazine. ' 
Keep that in your mind in all your communications 
with him, or your connection will be but short-lived. 
‘The story you send me is also good, but not good 
enough. This is only to be expected in so young an 
author, without experience of life, for which no imagi- 
nation can be a substitute; yet from this very MS. I 
gather great hopes of him. It is flippant and shallow 
enough, but he has wit and a very good style of his 
own. I should not mind seeing the little story again 
— an improved edition of it. It is a pity he lives 
in the country. An old literary hand may do so and 
write from recollection, but it does not do for a young 
writer. You confess, yourself, my dear Walden, that 
you are becoming a vegetable, and you were animal 
enough ’ 

“Oh, that’s all rubbish,” interjected Sir Charles has- 
tily. “ Old Latham is a Cockney, born and bred. ” 

“Still, how I should like to live in London,” sighed 
Lawrence; “if it was but in a garret.” 

“ Dick Whittington, eh, with your cat? Perhaps 
your ambition goes a little further; but that would 
come more expensive.” 

“ I k7ioWy' said Lawrence pathetically. 

“I envy you even your dreams,” replied the other 
gently. “My poor boy, my poor boy!” He rose and 


150 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

walked to the window, and gazed out on the glorious 
landscape bathed in moonlight. A good impulse, or 
at all events a generous one, was stirring within him. 
He had half a mind to play the part of a “ little Provi- 
dence with his interesting young friend. But would 
it, after all, be' for his advantage? There was at least 
one very good reason (known to himself only) why it 
should not be so; and there was also an objection to 
such a course — a strong, if not a good objection — upon 
his own account. The mere outlay that would be nec- 
essary, to do Sir Charles justice, never entered his 
mind. He was always liberal, nay lavish, in matters 
of expenditure, if they consorted with his own humor; 
if otherwise he could be granite. The impulse passed 
away. ‘‘Well,” he said, “there is little more in our 
friend’s letter that would interest you, except the in- 
closure; that is the price of the village sketch.” 

“A magnificent honorarium for such a trifle, indeed,” 
observed Lawrence. 

“ I am glad it pleases you, though, as I have said be- 
fore, an}^ sense of obligation you maybe feeling on that 
score will soon wear off. The literary mind — notwith- 
standing the reams of balderdash that have been writ- 
ten about it — is as practical as any other. Shakspere 
was no more indifferent to remuneration than Bacon, 
though he was a much more honest fellow. The la- 
borer is worthy of his hire, and even in the fields of 
letters is aware of it. The gate of that field is now 
open to you.” 

“Yes, and I shall never forget who opened it,” said 
Lawrence gently. 

“ It is kind of you to say so. Perhaps a day may 
come when you may have need to recall the fact to 


THE INDIAN SUMMER. 151 

excuse something amiss, or that seems amiss, on my 
part. It is only for that reason that I would bid you to 
remember if 

He is certainly referring to Ruth, thought Lawrence, 
but this time without resentment. He could not just 
now mix up resentful feelings with the gratitude and 
joy that filled his heart. Still, as Sir Charles had said, 
the literary mind is practical. Lawrence had no doubts 
of his friend — was without the least suspicion of the 
impulsiveness of his character — but, fortunately for him- 
self, had the instinct to strike while the iron was hot. 

“ There would be no harm, I suppose, in my putting 
myself in direct communication with Mr. Latham, now 
that you have broken the ice for me.” 

That is a better metaphor than yon have any idea 
of,” returned the other, laughing, ‘‘for Latham is not 
a gushing editor. You must not expect him to write 
to you so encouragingly as he writes of you to me. He 
looks upon the contributor, .though necessary to him, 
as a necessary evil, just as the barrister regards the so- 
licitor; and though he can be civil enough, no doubt, 
to the well-known author, he is frigid to the volun- 
teer.” 

“ I can now understand how much your friendship 
weighed with him,” said Lawrence, “since what has 
happened so far exceeds my own expectations. But if 
it was only to save you further trouble, I should like to 
be in personal communication with him. May I say 
that you have read to me what he has been so good as 
to say about .my ” 

“ Works,” exclaimed Sir Charles, filling up the hiatus 
of modest hesitation. “‘The works of Mr. Lawrence 
Merridew, the well-known novelist, will appear in 


152 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

monthly volumes at 5s. ; a few large paper copies will 
be issued at one guinea. ’ I hope I shall live to see it.” 

“ I am afraid you will have passed the ordinary limits 
of human life before that happens,” said Lawrence 
with a sigh. 

“ That observation is not complimentary to either of 
us,” returned the baronet dryly. It really seemed as 
if the subject of age was an unwelcome one to him. 

There was a long pause. 

‘‘ I am sorry to hear that you have a second invalid 
in the house,” said Sir Charles, after a long pause. 
“ Miss Ruth tells me that Mrs. Lock is seriously indis- 
posed.” 

‘‘Yes; poor Aunt Jerry, I fear, is a great deal worse 
than Mrs. Robert,” said Lawrence, “though not half so 
much fuss is made about her. Except my mother and 
Ruth, everybody takes her illness very coolly. It is 
one of the disadvantages of not being an heiress,” 

“And yet Mrs. Lock was very well off at one time,” 
observed Sir Charles. 

“So I have heard; but she has nothing now. If 
Uncle Robert thinks of her at all, he is probably calcu- 
lating how cheaply she can be buried. ” 

“ It seems to me you are what an emotional philoso- 
pher has described as ‘a good hater, ' Master Lawrence. ” 

“So would you be, if you were in my place,” an- 
swered Lawrence. 

“I suppose so,” returned the other, smiling. 

Though Lawrence resented the indifference of his 
relatives to AUnt Jerry’s indisposition, he himself re- 
garded it with philosophy. There was not only no 
sympathy between them, but he had a suspicion that, 
he was not a favorite with the old lady. 


THE INDIAN SUMMER. 


153 


As regarded the feelings of his fellow-creatures, he 
was as sensitive to heat and cold as a thermometer; 
and if he could have been present at a little scene that 
was going on at that very moment only a few doors 
from his own room, he would have had his views on 
the matter in question corroborated. 


CHAPTER XX. 


AUNT JERRY. 

In a bedroom of ample proportions, but poorly fur- 
nished, lay an old woman, on what, to judge by the 
white and weary face, the pinched features, the atten- 
uated frame, and the voice that hardly rose to whisper 
pitch, should have been her deathbed ; but her cavern- 
ous eyes had lustre in them still, and though her speech 
was low it was sustained, and had none of those gasps 
and blanks in it that herald the eternal silence. Aunt 
Jerry was ill, no doubt, but, as her brother had cheer- 
fully remarked to her when speaking of the fact, she was 
“worth a couple of dead 'uns yet. '' The observation, 
no doubt intended as a tonic, had effected no improve- 
ment in her condition; but there was some truth in it. 
vSo very ill had Aunt Jerry got to look that it had be- 
come importunate. It even occurred to her tender- 
hearted niece, Ruth Stratton, as she leaned over her 
patient's gray head and smoothed her pillow, and 
rubbed her fevered forehead with eau de cologne. 
How can this Damocles sword, which almost visibl}^ 
hangs over this unhappy woman, have for her anything 
of menace? Perhaps it has not; but, on the other 
hand, she has no desire to die. She has just told the 
doctor so, who has replied “ quite right” in a very en- 
couraging manner, and has since informed Miss Jane 
of the circumstance as reflecting credit upon the family. 

154 


AUNT JERRY. 


155 


“ That inherent determination of the Strattons which 
she shares with the rest of you,” he had said, “ will 
keep her alive, madam — well — for some days.” 

“I hope so, indeed,” replied Miss Jane, with genuine 
feeling and regret that the report had not been even 
more favorable, since “if anything happened ” to Aunt 
Jerry — such influences have the slightest causes upon 
the affairs of real moment — it would be necessary for 
their guest to leave the Hall, just as everything be- 
tween himself and Ruth seemed going on so nicely. 

^‘Ruth,” said the old lady, “this must not be.” 

“What must not be, Aunt Jerry?” 

“ Your coming here in your beautiful clothes every 
night to nurse a poor old woman like me. Your uncle 
doesn’t like it, your Aunt Jane doesn’t like it. It’s a 
waste.” 

“A waste?” 

“Well, of course, it’s a waste” (this with some irri- 
tation). “ There is nothing to be gained by it. I wish 
there was — oh, deary me,” (her favorite expression)! 
“ how I wish there was. I wish I could make you rich — 
rich as you deserve; then you would have millions. 
And, what is worse, you are losing your opportunities. 
This is the third night you have left the drawing-room 
before the proper time to come and look after me. This 
has been remarked upon. It is not hospitable.” 

“ Hospitable? I don’t understand you. Aunt Jerry.” 

“That is what they complain of. You do not, Jane 
tells me, appreciate your position. Ruth, dear Ruth, 
my darling, there is now a chance for you to escape 
from this dreadful place. Look at me. Do you wish 
your life to be like mine — to be a dependent all your 
life upon bounty grudged? Your grandfather will leave 


156 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

you nothing ; Robert will take care of that. At pres- 
ent you have your beauty ; when that is gone, all will 
be gone. To be old and ugly, poor and friendless (for 
you will have no Ruth to love you) is a terrible fate. 
He does not like your running away every night, Jane 
tells me, before he has done talking with you. There 
is no sort of excuse for it, she says ; which is very true. 
It is not hospitable.” 

“Are you speaking of Sir Charles Walden,” ex- 
claimed Ruth, with a sudden flush. “What is it to 
him, whether I go or stay?” 

“ Much, my darling, much ; but oh, so very much 
more to you,” answered the old woman. “It is you 
that I am thinking of. I care nothing about him at 
all.” 

“Nor I,” answered the girl coldly. “No, I will not 
say that because he has been kind to Lawrence,” she 
added hastily ; “ but he is nothing to me — nor can ever 
be in the way you mean.” 

“Ah, that is what I feared; that is worse than all. 
You only like him because he has been kind to Law- 
rence.” 

“Why should I like him for any other reason?” 

“ Because love begets love, and he loves you. Yes 
he does, Ruth, in his owm fashion, though you shake 
your head. I am old and stupid, but I can see that. 
There is a light in his face when you are present that 
is not there at other times. He is not young, it is true ; 
not a boy like Lawrence ; but neither will he change 
like a boy. There is the way out of all your difficul- 
ties. Your love will come, when you are married to 
him; it does come so sometimes, it does indeed.” 

“My dear Aunt Jerry, this is idle talk,” answered 


AUNT JERRY. 


157 


Ruth gravely; “ if you were Aunt Jane, I should say it 
was wicked talk. I will not listen to it. So far from 
it making me like the person you have in mind, it will 
set me against him. I shall not even be grateful to 
him for what he has done for Lawrence.'' 

“ I wish you would not think of Lawrence so much, 
my darling." 

‘‘Why not?" answered the girl vehemently. “Who 
else is there to think of him, except indeed, his poor 
mother. I know no one — not even yourself — who has 
been so systematically ill-treated, so insulted, so 
wronged. Why should I not pity him?" 

Aunt Jerry was silent; not for want of something to 
say, but from the reflection, would it be wise to say it? 
She was not an intelligent person, but she had instincts 
— delicate thoughts, even — that are often wanting to 
much cleverer people. Her view of human nature had 
been extremely limited, but she understood those she 
loved. Her feelings were essentially womanly; she 
shrank from inflicting pain, even though it was for the 
good of the sufferer. At last she said, “ All you say 
is very true, my darling ; but Lawrence is not worthy 
of you." 

The girl rose from her chair with a white face. “You 
are ill. Aunt Jerry; you do not know what you are say- 
ing — or you are jealous of poor Lawrence." 

“I? Jealous?" answered the other pathetically. 
“Well, perhaps I am; but it is not on my own ac- 
count." 

“Lawrence not worthy!" continued Ruth. “Who 
under this roof can be a judge of that? He is a head 
and shoulders above everybody. That will be acknowl- 
edged some day, when the creatures who persecute him 


158 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

have gone to their tinhonored graves. You do not 
understand his nature; you must forgive my saying 
you are incapable of it.” 

“I know I am a stupid, ignorant old woman,” an- 
swered Aunt Jerry humbly. ” I know that your cousin 
has thoughts too high for me; but the cleverest are not 
always the best, nor even the wisest.- They make great 
mistakes, my dear — fatal mistakes, sometimes.” 

‘‘They are human, if you mean that, of course.” 

“Yes, that is it; poor humanity! I am not blaming 
poor Lawrence, mind; and besides, he is but a boy. 
How should a boy know copper from gold. It shines, 
it sparkles, and that is enough for him.” 

“ I don’t know to what you are alluding. Aunt Jerry 
— not that it matters, however.” It might not matter, 
but the speaker was white to the lips. Her hands went 
up to her bosom, and stayed there, as if to suppress 
some inward passion. “ If you have anything to say 
against my cousin — if you, too, wish to add your voice 
to those which cry out against the innocent — say it. 
Not worthy? Why is he not worthy?” 

“I said he was not worthy of you^ my darling,” an- 
swered the old lady, in a frightened voice. “ Nor is 
he? Nobody is.” 

Ruth threw out her disengaged arm with a contemp- 
tuous gesture, as though she would wave away this 
empty compliment. “You said more. Aunt Jerry. 
Something about gold and copper. What did you 
mean?” 

“ I mean — it may not be true, of course, but you ought 
to know if it is true — it has come to my ears that Law- 
rence is paying court to Kate Salesby.” 

“It is false!” exclaimed Ruth. “The talk of the 


AUNT JERRY. 


159 


servants* hall. You ought to be ashamed to repeat it!’* 
Then, with sudden calmness, “ And if it is true, what 
right have you — what right has any one to make it a 
charge against him? You are not his keeper. He is 
his own master. Why should not Lawrence ” 

She dropped into the arm-chair and clung to it with 
both her hands. Have you anything more to say,” 
she added, as though with a last effort of speech, 

“ against my — my cousin?” 

“No, darling, no. Oh, deary me, how sorry I am! 

I dare say it is not true.” 

“ And I say that, whether it is true or not, it is infa- 
mous to blame him.” 

“Don’t be angry with me, darling,” cried Aunt Jerry 
pathetically. “ I thought — I was afraid — I did it for 
the best, indeed I did, because I love you so. It is 
only for a few days — a week, at most — that I shall be 
with you. Oh, pray forgive me! If I were in Heaven 
itself, and felt that my darling was bitter against me, 

I could not be happy.” 

“ I am not bitter against you. Aunt Jerry; but I hate« 
backbiters and slanderers,” 

“Deary me!” moaned the sick woman. Never did 
ludicrous ejaculations sound so piteously. 

“I am not classing in that category,” the girl 
hastened to add ; “ and though I think you were WTong 
to have repeated what they said, I am not angry with 
you; I am only hurt.” 

“ Hurt? Oh, deary me, to think that I should have 
hurt my own heart’s darling!” cried the old lady. 

“ Give me your little hand to kiss, and say you forgive 
poor Aunt Jerry.” 

Ruth stooped down and kissed her, tenderly enough; 


l6o A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. * 

but she was not the radiant being that she had looked 
but a few minutes ago. The glory of youth and hope 
in her eyes was quenched ; the color of life had faded 
from her face, and in its place was a marble whiteness, 
as though a picture should have become a statue. 

“ I have done mischief,” moaned the old lady; harm 
where I had meant to help, my dear; forgive me.” 

“ I have forgiven you. Aunt Jerry.” 

“ You say so with your pretty lips, but do you feel it 
in your heart, Ruth?” 

The girl nodded assent, and smiled an icy smile ; not 
a glowing one such as she was wont to use, and one 
that vanished as quickly as it came. 

‘‘Then that is over, darling,” put in the other eager- 
ly. “ Let us talk of other things. There is something 
I wanted to say to you — something I wanted you to do 
for me. In my desk yonder are some papers. I want 
you to keep them for me ; they must not fall into other 
hands when I am gone.” 

“ What are they?” 

“ I don’t quite know myself; but Jerry — poor fellow 
— told me never to part with them. So when he died, 
a ruined man, and Robert took everything else away 
from me, as he did, I hid them from him.” 

“But if they are valuable, I cannot keep them,” an- 
swered Ruth. 

“ And yet I thought you said you had forgiven poor 
Aunt Jerry?” 

“It is not a question of forgiveness, ” was the firm 
reply. 

“I see,” said the old lady quietly. “You are quite 
right. As I have left them — not that they are worth 
leaving: Jerry himself said they were worth nothing 


AUNT JERRY. 


l6l 


— in my will, it will be necessary for you to produce 
them. Please to keep them till the time comes.” 

In any other house it would have been a strange re- 
quest to make; but, even to Ruth, her aunt’s solicitude 
for the safety of her documents did not seem super- 
fluous. She opened the desk and took out a moder- 
ately-sized parcel carefully sealed. “ It has my name 
upon it already,” she observed. 

“ Yes, that was a precaution against accident. I have 
always intended you to take charge of it ; and now it 
will be safe. ” 


II 


CHAPTER XXI. 


HOOKING THEIR FISH. 

When Ruth retired to her own room that night, with 
her aunt’s parcel in her hand, she thought but little of 
what she carried. She put it mechanicall}^ into a 
drawer of her desk, and, having locked it, gave no more 
attention to the matter. Aunt Jerry had given her 
something else to think about which could not be put 
in a drawer or forgotten. Was it possible that what 
had come to the ears of the old lady about Lawrence 
and Kate Salesby was true? That it had not come to 
the ears of others was natural enough, for the maids, 
through whom it must have come, would have been 
naturally loath to speak of it to Lawrence’s mother, and 
certainly disinclined to do so to their own master and 
mistress. 

It was with no thought of doing harm, however, but 
probably the contrary, that they had told Aunt Jerry, 
with whom, to say truth, they were somewhat too fa- 
miliar. She had never been encumbered with dignity, 
and in these latter days had become, in position, little 
superior to a servant herself. It was clear enough, in 
short, from whence the report had arisen; but the ques- 
tion which was so unfortunately pressing on Ruth’s at- 
tention was, was it true? As she had said, even if it 
was true, it was no business of hers, nor of anybody. 
So far as his affections, at least, were concerned, Law- 

162 


HOOKING THEIR FISH. 


163 


rence was his own master; and he had not — no, he had 
not engaged them elsewhere. Ruth did not confess, 
even to herself, that she was in love with her cousin. 
A girl has not the freedom of a man in such a matter. 
She must not acknowledge that he whom she loves has 
won her affections till he has declared his love ; and it 
had excessively annoyed Ruth that Aunt Jerry had 
taken it for granted that she did love Lawrence. But 
so it was, for all that. What she had heard, therefore, 
had gone to her very heart. It gave her exquisite pain, 
but it did not rankle there, as it would have done, had 
Lawrence been engaged to her and proved unfaithful. 
She had been spared that wretchedness. And, more- 
over, there was a mitigation of her misery in the reflec- 
tion that Kate was not quite her equal. As regards 
family, indeed, the Salesbys were among the oldest in 
the county; but in position, education, feeling, Kate 
was obviously her inferior. 

It was amazing to Ruth that one like Lawrence 
should have stooped to such a girl. She wondered how 
he could have been conquered by such feeble weapons 
as a pretty face, a graceful figure — if, indeed, he had 
been conquered. On the whole, though the idea dis- 
tressed her, she did not believe it, and she was far less 
angry with Aunt Jerry for believing it than for the 
depreciatory terms in which she had spoken of Law- 
rence. Not worthy of her!** The compliment to her- 
self that phrase implied did not one whit diminish her 
dislike of it. Lawrence was worthy of an angel. Nor 
did she forget — or, rather, she now began for the first 
time to remember — -that the old lady had dropped de- 
preciatory remarks about him before; had hinted at his 
vanity, his selfishness. Vanity! Selfishness! How 


164 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

could he help being conscious of his superior intelli- 
gence? How could he help, situated as he was, a 
feeling of isolation, conveyed to others and by them 
misconstrued? The first person who, qualified by in- 
telligence to judge of his character, had made his ac- 
quaintance had appreciated him at once. Sir Charles 
Walden had said, If your cousin is not a genius. Miss 
Ruth, he is a near relation to one.” The baronet’s 
praise of the lad was so welcome to her that she forgot 
to be angry with him for having had Aunt Jerry for his 
advocate. The old lady’s notion of his being in love 
with her, though very distasteful, gave her little an- 
noyance, for she did not believe it. She attributed the 
idea to her relative’s match-making instincts. 

There had, indeed, been a time, on the baronet’s first 
coming to Hillsland, when there had been that in his 
manner — she hardly knew what, but a something — 
which gave her some embarrassment. He had some- 
times, even while he talked of Lawrence, looked at 
her, smiled at her, as if it were upon his own account 
that he was talking. His voice had sunk lower than 
it need have done, even when they were not conversing 
upon ‘‘the common enemy,” as he called her uncle; he 
had paid her little compliments very gracefully, but 
which it had been nevertheless difficult to ignore. It 
was possible — though it had never struck her in that 
light till Aunt Jerry had given it such decisive shape 
— that Sir Charles had at one time been making love to 
her. But that it had not been so of late days she felt 
convinced. There had been a difference in his way 
with her, though it was by no means a less friendly 
way. Indeed, they had growm more familiar — more 
confidential, even — with one another. His manner was 


HOOKING THEIR FISH. 165 

no less tender, but had become more paternal. She 
had never been the least afraid of him, and certainly 
not of herself as regarded him, but what little embar- 
rassment he at one time had caused her no longer ex- 
isted in their relations with one another. There was a 
tacit understanding between them, but not at all of the 
nature to which Aunt Jerry had alluded. Had it been 
otherwise — had matters even been on their former foot- 
ing — what had just been said to her would have made 
all future intercourse between the baronet and herself 
strained and uncomfortable ; but, fortunately, this was 
not the case. She could still like him, as Lawrence’s 
friend, without fear of misunderstanding. She could 
not now, of course, be unaware of the significance, 
which in the eyes of Uncle Robert and Aunt Jane at- 
tached to such a “ friendship but that troubled her 
very little. She did not hate those relatives as Law- 
rence hated them, nor, indeed, had she the same reason 
to do so ; but she despised them even more. 

When one of those opportunities of being alone to- 
gether, which were constantly being afforded to herself 
and Sir Charles, took place on the ensuing morning, 
the latter at once began to speak of their common topic, 
Lawrence. 

You have heard, I suppose, of your cousin’s capture 
of Mr. Latham, the editor?” 

“ Indeed, I have not,” she said, with eager interest. 

“What, has he not told you? I should not have 
given him credit for such modest reticence. I saw him 
speaking to his mother this morning with such spark- 
ling eyes that, though I did not hear a word, I am sure 
he was telling her all about it.” 

“ He has not told me one word.” Though there was 


i66 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


no complaint in her tone, there was dejection in it. 
Sir Charles saw that she was pained, and pitied her. 
He was angry, too, with him who had caused her pain. 
“ What a fool the boy is!’’ he said to himself. “ What 
an idiot not to see where true sympathy is waiting for 
him, and to neglect this angel for a girl that — well, is 
not nearly so well suited for him. I’ll warrant he has 
taken his news to ‘The Corner,’ where it will not even 
be understood. ” 

Not a sign of this indignation, however, was to be 
seen in Sir Charles’ face. “Well,” he said, “ I am sin- 
cerely obliged to my young friend for having permitted 
me to be the first bearer of his good tidings to you. 
Mr. Latham is as much struck by the specimens of Law- 
rence’s talent I sent him as an editor of thirty years’ 
standing can be reasonably expected to be. He thinks 
quite as highly of it as I do, and his opinion is of course 
of much more consequence. He has accepted one of his 
stories — and even paid for it — and Lawrence is in the 
seventh heaven of happiness.” 

“I am so glad!” cried Ruth; but her lips quivered 
and her voice faltered. “ Oh, why,” she seemed to be 
saying, “ did he not let me share his happiness by tell- 
ing me this news himself?” 

“Yes, Latham evidently thinks well of his prospects 
in literature — gives him great encouragement, and even 
suggests that he should come up to town.” 

The color left the girl’s face. “ And will he go?” 

“ He certainly seemed to be pleased at the idea. You 
must not blame him for that. It is only natural 
that ” 

“I do not blame him,” she interrupted hastily. 
“What right has any one to blame him? If I seemed 


HOOKING THEIR FISH. 


167 


to be sorry, it was but a passing selfishness. We shall 
miss him so — his mother and I, I mean — and it will 
make his time so short with us, for he is to go to Singa- 
pore, you know, at the end of the year.’' 

‘‘ But his hope is that if he goes to London he will 
not go to Singapore at all.” 

‘‘ Oh, that would indeed please him, and be good for 
him — would it not?” she added hastily, as though con- 
scious of having been too eager that he should be 
pleased. 

‘‘Yes; I think upon the whole it would be good for 
him. It will be well to remove him for the present 
from Hillsland, where in some respects — though not in 
all, ’’put in the speaker with a smile, which Ruth would 
have fain ignored, ” he is so unhappily situated ; and 
better still, if it resulted in his permanently supporting 
himself without being indebted to his relatives.” 

“ You do not say, or to his friends, Sir Charles,” ob- 
served Ruth gravely. “ Of course, it is not for me to 
interfere in any plan for his benefit; but I fear you are 
taking some responsibility upon your shoulders, and 
that in his natural desire to escape from thraldom, he 
may not consider — the — the ” 

“The obligation:” interposed the other with an 
amused look. 

“ Well, no, I did not quite mean that. I am sure 
Lawrence would be always grateful, and that in your 
case bounty would be as little grudged as felt. But 
there are some favors which, though offered in the 
most unselfish kindness by the giver — and though they 
may never be repented of by the recipient — one ought 
not to receive.” 

She hesitated, and the more so since the color had 


i68 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


risen in the other’s usually impassive face. “ I hope I 
have not angered yon, Sir Charles.” 

“Angered me? That would be a difficult thing for 
you to do, my dear young lady, whatever you might 
please to say to me. It is very natural, and does you 
infinite credit, that you should look beyond the present 
gratification of your cousin, and consider the loss of 
independence of character that might ensue from it.” 

“Yes, that is what I meant, if I could only have ex- 
pressed myself ; and also that Lawrence is so young, 
and has no friends in London; and we — that is, his 
mother and I — are so ignorant of the world, that we 
have not even advice to offer him.” 

“Just so; all you say is most sensible and just. But 
as to the obligation, there will be none at all. Law- 
rence has no extravagant notions. It will be easy for 
him to support himself in a humble way by his pen 
without assistance from any one; and Latham’s people 
are very nice and will look after him. So far you must 
allow me to be of service — just atffirst. I have thought 
that over.” 

“You are kind, indeed. But his mother will have 
her fears. And there is another thing; if Lawrence 
leaves us, even temporarily, his uncle will make it the 
excuse for quarrel — will set his grandfather against 
him — cause him, perhaps, even to be renounced and 
cut off altogether.” 

“ I have thought of that, too. My plan is to invite 
Lawrence to my own house. Against his being my 
visitor your people will not have a word to say. It is 
not likely that they will trouble themselves to inquire 
what he is doing; and while supposed to be under my 
roof, he may be trying his luck in London — feeling his 


HOOKING THEIR FISH. 


169 


wings, as it were — so that, even if they fail him, there 
will no harm be done. He can but return, and go to 
Singapore after all.” 

“That is not very frank, is it?” said Ruth hesitat- 
ingly, “not quite straightforward?” 

Again the color came into Sir Charles’s face. 

“You know the people he has to deal with better 
than I do,” he answered coldly. “ If you think a bolder 
course more advisable — for Lawrence to lay before 
your uncle his little plan of escape ” 

“ Forgive me,” she put in quickly. “ No; that would 
be out of the question. It is easy to be conscientious 
when somebody else is taking all the responsibility off 
one’s shoulders. I must seem to you ungrateful in- 
deed. ” 

She put out her hand to him with a sudden impulse, 
and he pressed it tenderly. 

They both forgot for the moment that they were 
talking in the veranda within eye-shot of the break- 
fast-room windows. Uncle Robert and Aunt Jane were 
both standing there, and motives of delicacy had not 
restrained them from making use of the opportunity. 

“ Did you see thatV murmured Uncle Robert -signifi- 
cantly. 

“Well, of course I did; it’s what I’ve been expecting 
to see for a good many days,” replied his sister. “ It 
would have been hard indeed, if all the trouble and 
expense the man has caused us all this time had gone 
for nothing.” 

“Oh, the expense!” said Robert generously. 

“You can’t hook your fish without gear.” 


CHAPTER XXIL 


KITTY IS NOT SANGUINE. 

What had seemed so strange and even awkward to 
Ruth — that her cousin had not been the first to tell her 
of the good fortune that had befallen him — had been to 
Lawrence the most natural thing in the world. He 
had wanted to tell her, and to tell his mother, also ; he 
had hardly slept for thinking of it, and yearned to com- 
municate it to all who took an interest in his affairs; 
but the very importance it had in his eyes made him 
feel that it was due to Kitty that she should be the first 
to know it. For did it not concern her more than any- 
one else? Was it not the very tidings, unexpected and 
beyond all hope, that would make the course of true 
love to run smooth? She loved him — though he ad- 
mitted to himself less passionately than he loved her — 
and the sole obstacle to her acceptance of him had been 
a material one. She knew nothing — and indeed, cared 
nothing — of literary affairs, and his idea of gaining a 
livelihood by his pen had seemed to her little better 
than a dream. It was a disappointment to him, of 
course, that it was so — that she had no sympathy with 
his ambition, and valued fame at a much lower rate 
than the philosophers pretend to estimate it; but now 
that he had something tangible to show her — his ten 
pound note; and the editor’s encouragement to tell her 

170 


KITTY IS NOT SANGUINE. 171 

about — his pretensions surely stood on entirely different 
and far firmer ground. 

Directly after breakfast he flew on the wings of love 
to Kitty’s abode. Mr. Salesby, who had been drinking 
his own health — though with little benefit to it — pretty 
constantly from the hour at which he had learned the 
good news from Epsom Downs, had not yet come 
down, and the young lady was alone at the breakfast- 
table waiting for him. She was not impatient, but sat 
with her pretty face resting on her hands, in thought. 
It was their pressure against her velvet cheeks, perhaps, 
that gave them unaccustomed color; but they were cer- 
tainly more roseate than usual. Her eyes, on the other 
hand, were less bright than ordinary; they were fixed 
upon the not over- white cloth beneath them in dreamy 
abstraction. It was not her habit to be so self-involved. 
As a rule, she seldom gave way to reflection of any 
kind, as she had little that was pleasant to think about; 
and the result on the present occasion had apparently 
been far from satisfactory. She had been weeping. 
So lost was she in thought that she had not heard Law- 
rence’s step on the garden Xvalk, and only by his open- 
ing the front door without knocking guessed who was 
the visitor. In a single instant she had dried her eyes, 
and, as he entered the room, was pouring herself out a 
cup of tea. 

“What, alone?” cried the young fellow joyously; 
“this is luck, indeed. Kiss me, my darling Kitty — 
why, what’s the matter?” 

He had passed his arm round her waist in the most 
natural way in the world, and was leaning over her 
shoulder to kiss her, when she shook herself free from 
him. 


172 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


“ Only that you’ve scalded me, and spoiled the table- 
cloth,” she answered pettishly, but with a certain grav- 
ity of manner, too. “ I told you that you were not to 
do that any more.” 

“Did you!” he said, with a pleasant smile. “Well, 
if you did it was under a mistake, my dear, and you 
will have to pay me back my kiss with interest. I have 
brought you news that will absolve me for fifty kisses.” 

“ News? What news?” Her curiosity was excited 
in spite of herself. She had fixed upon a certain course 
of conduct in her own mind as regarded Lawrence, but 
there were possibilities which might alter that. It was 
foolish of her to have imagined anything of the kind, 
and she repented of it immediately; but for the instant 
his evident happiness and enthusiasm had misled her. 
She scarcely knew what to think had happened. But 
as sitting close beside her, with his eager eyes looking 
into her own, he poured into her ear his glorious news, 
she showed no corresponding emotion. She gave him 
her attention and that was all. Even when he produced 
the ten pound note — which, as the first money he had 
ever earned, as well as the earnest of future fortune, 
seemed to him wealth and fame in one — it awoke 
scarcely a ray of interest. But though his story failed 
in its intent, the manner of his telling it, and above all 
the contiguity of his bright face and the touch of his 
hand as he placed it lightly on her arm by way of em- 
phasis, were not without their influence. Though his 
arguments failed, their appeal was not unanswered ; 
she could not prevent stealing a tender look at him 
from time to time, and this blinded him to the indiffer- 
ence with which she regarded his tidings. 

“ So you see, darling, that what you thought so im- 


KITTY IS NOT SANGUINE. 


173 

possible has actually come to pass,” he said, when all 
had been told, “ and nothing now prevents you from 
giving me your first kiss, as my promised bride, in ex- 
change for this one,” and he kissed her. 

She jumped up from her chair with scarlet face, and 
a look in her eyes that was half anger and half shame. 

You have no right to do that, Lawrence, and I won’t 
have it!” she exclaimed with vehemence. 

‘‘ No right? Why, that is just what I have got, and 
had not before,” said Lawrence naively; for, in fact, 
it was not his first salute by many. 

“You have got nothing of the kind,” she answered, 
keeping him at a distance with one hand, while she 
pressed the other to her bosom, where indeed wild work 
was going on, and such as needed a pacificator. 
“ There is nothing in what you have said — though, of 
course, I am glad to hear it for your sake — to alter our 
relations to one another. Do you suppose that we can 
marry upon ten pounds?” 

The last sentence was much more confidently stated 
than the first. Of the profits of literature she knew 
nothing, but as regarded the expenses of housekeeping 
she was at home. 

“ But that is only the first dip in the lucky bag, Kitty. 
There is plenty more where that came from, and Sir 
Charles has a plan in his head which will put the whole 
thing to proof in a very little while.” 

“ What has Sir Charles to do with it?” she answered 
curtly. “ I mean, what can he do for you more than he 
has done?” 

“Well, he suggested that I should leave Hillsland 
and go up to London at once.” 

“Indeed.” She resumed her seat, but farther away 


174 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


from her impassioned swain than before, and began 
smoothing away the folds on the table-cloth. 

“Yes. I am to go home with him for the present.” 

“To Hurlby Castle,” she interrupted hastily. 
“You?” 

“ It is not such a very great honor,” he answered, 
in a tone of wounded pride. “ I assure you Sir Charles 
himself would be the last to look upon it in that light. 
He has no other design, of course, than to do me a ser- 
vice; but he is so good as to say it will please him to 
have me as his guest. It is not a piece of mere pat- 
ronage as you are thinking. As a man of letters, I may 
hold up my head some day as high as he does. I wish 
I could get you to understand that, Kitty, dear. ” 

“And how long are you to stay at Hurlby?” she in- 
quired. She seemed interested enough in that ques- 
tion, though she ignored his remark about the social 
status of literary persons altogether. 

“Well, not more than a day or two, I suppose. The 
fact is. Sir Charles’s invitation is only a blind; for I 
shall be up in town while my grandfather and the rest 
believe me to be at the Castle. I shall be trying my 
wings, as it were, and if I find that they will bear one, 
they will very soon be able to bear two.” 

“ Did Sir Charles say ihat?l* inquired Kitty coldly. 

“ Why, of course not. How should he know how 
dearly I love you, and what is my chief aim and object 
in becoming independent? In a few months — even 
in a few weeks perhaps — I may give you such proofs of 
my fitness for the calling I have chosen that you will 
be running scarcely any risk at all in letting me call 
you mine. I had hoped that the news I brought this 
morning would have been sufficient to at least make 


KITTY IS NOT SANGUINE. 1 75 

you reconsider the answer you gave me the other 
day. 

“I don’t like risks, Lawrence; and I have had quite 
enough of poverty,” she replied dryly. “ If my father 
happens to gain a little money — such as your ten pound 
note — it goes as lightly as it comes. I hate what are 
called ‘narrow means.’ I am not made for them; I 
don’t wish to study economy all my life — to look after 
the shillings and sixpences. I like you very well, 
Lawrence, dear- ” 

“Like me!” he cried aghast. “You have said you 
loved me! And you do love me, Kitty? Come, con- 
fess, you do love me just a little bit.” 

He hitched his chair closer to her, and laid his hand 
upon her arm beseechingly. She trembled and turned 
pale; and in hollow, broken tones replied: 

“ I don’t know what I have said. You think too 
much of it, v/hatever it was, and of me also. I tell 
you, I am not fit to be the wife of a poor man.” 

“ But, my dear Kitty, where are you to find a rich 
one? You used to reprove me for having dreams; and 
yet, I am surely nearer to their realization than you 
are to what you have in your mind. If it were a matter 
of alternative, I should not have a word to say; but 
to throw me over ” 

“ I have not thrown you over,” she put in quickly. 

“Well, to deny me hope, with even less than hope in 
the scale against me — to say you prefer a possible 
chance of marrying some wealthy stranger to risking 
poverty with the man you love — that is monstrous. 
Besides, it is not so certain — and that is the very point 
— that I shall always be a poor man. Why, when I 
came up here — to tell you of it first of all, before my 


176 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


mother, even, and Rnth — I said to myself, Kitty will 
have no excuse now ; for that she loves me dearly — 
though not so much as I love her, because that’s im- 
possible — I know. -And now — why, what’s the matter, 
Kitty?” 

The tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she 
dashed them away with both hands. “ Nothing,” she 
cried. Here’s father coming,” and a little pink as to 
the eyes, and a little white as to the gills, and with a 
general air of difficulty as to the tie of his neckcloth, 
Mr. Salesby entered the room. 

'‘You here, young gentleman?” he exclaimed coolly 
enough, but not ungraciously; “you’re an early bird — ■ 
after the worm, I suppose?” and he nodded with much 
gravity toward his daughter. 

“ I brought some news for Kitty. There is some little 
probability of my having a start in life, you will be 
glad to hear.” 

“Ay, ay; drop the flag and all together: there’s 
nothing like a fair start. But it is a long cruise to 
Singapore.” 

“ But I hope I’m going to London; though it’s quite 
a private matter.” 

“Oh, oh! So you are taken into confidence, are you? 
Then matters must be even worse than I thought they 
were. Daren’t show ourselves at Tattersall’s, but send 
our nevvy and representative to arrange matters, eh? 
Well, mind you look sharp after your commission, my 
lad, or the squire will bilk you. There’s Dick Sales- 
by ’s tip for that event. The eggs are cold and the 
bacon’s hard, Kitty.” 

“ I am sorry, father; but you are very late.” 

“ The man of means — that is, with ready money — gets 


KITTY IS NOT SANGUINE. 


177 


up when he likes, Kit. I only wish it would last. 
Yes, my boy. Here is no doubt your chanCe. The 
squire will not dare to stand in your way with grand- 
papa if you know his little secrets. I suppose ‘Mum ’ 's 
the word, or I should like to know how much he is in 
for. ” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Salesby, I know nothing about my un- 
cle’s affairs.” 

“ Close as wax, eh? Quite right”. Then Mr. Salesby 
began talking about the Ascot Cup, which to Lawrence 
was Greek, and even Hebrew. It was evidentl}^ no use 
to prolong his visit, and after an ineffectual attempt to 
persuade Kitty to come out for a walk he took his 
leave. 

It had been a most unsatisfactory and disappointing 
business. He had still no doubt of Kitty’s affections, 
but it was clear she yet doubted of his ability to make 
his way in the world. He felt that unless he could 
procure some definite and permanent means of liveli- 
hood, she would hesitate to pledge herself to him. As 
to her father, he was not inimical to his views, but it 
was impossible to explain to Salesby the ground of his 
literary expectations and useless to persuade him of the 
mistake he was under as to his relations with Uncle 
Robert. Indeed, it was better to leave him in it, since, 
for the time at least, it rendered Mr. Salesby more fav- 
orable \o his hopes. 

In a very different frame of mind from that with 
which he had started from home that morning, Law- 
rence sought the moorland with languid steps. 

Upon its breezy top, perhaps, some more cheerful re- 
flections would present themselves, and at all events he 
was in no humor for society. The news that had been 
12 


178 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

SO good to him an hour before seemed no longer worth 
communicating to anybody. As he reached the brow 
of the hill he saw a horseman coming toward him. If 
there had been time to avoid him he would have done 
so — though he recognized the rider at once as his best 
and oldest friend; but there was no time; the recogni- 
tion, indeed, had been mutual. 

Mr. Percy, for it was no other than his old tutor, was 
already waving his riding-whip and uttering some 
cheerful salutation which the wind carried away. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 


AN OLD FRIEND. 

The Rev. Gerald Percy, rector of Westerham, the 
neighboring parish, formed a strong contrast to his 
brother divine of Hillsland. He was one of the hand- 
somest men in the Church of England — tall and well 
formed, with gray hair that curled over his ample brows 
like a middle-aged Antinous. He was one of the sur- 
vivors of the school of muscular Christianity, and as 
good in the cricket-field and on the quoiting-green as 
in the pulpit. The only fault he had found with Law- 
rence, when he was his pupil, was that the young fel- 
low's tastes had not been sufficiently athletic. He 
believed that wholesomeness of life had a close connec- 
tion with the exercise of the muscles, and even in- 
stanced St. Paul’s metaphors from pedestrianism as a 
proof of it. Our professional athlete scarcely bears out 
his theory, but it did not enter into his mind that a 
time should come when hardly a match of any sort 
could be engaged in without there being “ money upon 
it.” 

Though little versed in modem literature, he was a 
fair scholar, and a gentleman down to his finger tips. 
The Church was his wife and his flock was his family, 
and a more unselfish being it would have been hard to 
find. His interest in Lawrence was a proof of it, for, 

179 


i8o 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


indeed, they had little in common; but he had per- 
ceived the youth to be cast in an uncommon mould, 
and liked him none the less because of their points of 
difference. In one matter he had taken great pains 
with him, where difference, in persons of Mr. Percy’s 
calling, is often fatal to influence, namely, in religious 
faith. Lawrence, though affectionate by nature, had 
the scepticism common to men of his peculiar tempera- 
ment, and his tutor had treated it very tenderly. He 
even understood that it arose out of good ground, 
though the root might be unsubstantial and the trunk 
awry. Many a talk they had together over ‘‘ Fate, free 
will, fore-knowledge absolute,” conducted on the one 
side with the utmost admirable gentleness and forbear- 
ance, and on the other with fire and freedom. 

There was nothing which Lawrence would not have 
told his tutor of his innermost thoughts, so certain he 
felt of sympathy; yet, strangely enough, there were 
other secrets of his heart which he would rather have 
disclosed to almost any other man than he. He had 
been confidential enough about them with Sir Charles — 
to whom he would have been chary, indeed, of convers- 
ing upon spiritual matters — but to Mr. Percy he would 
not have dreamed of saying one word about Miss Kitty 
Salesby. Not that he was ashamed of her, of course, 
or of his love for her ; but because the whole affair was 
surreptitious and underhand, and must remain so, no 
matter what arguments the reverend gentleman might 
(and certainly would) advance to the contrary. The 
same reason he felt must prevent him from hinting at 
what stood almost as near to his mind, namely, that ex- 
pedition under false pretences into the world of letters 
in London. Unfortunately, it was with something akin 


AN OLD FRIEND. 


l8l 


to that very subject that Mr. Percy comraenced the con- 
versation. 

“ Well, Lawrence, my lad, have you taken the heights 
of Parnassus by storrn yet?’’ 

‘‘Not exactly,” returned the lad, smiling. '‘'‘Non 
omnino sed pene. ” 

“Come, Pm glad you remember your Latin; but how 
near have you got to. Parnassus? Are you writing for 
the Sunday papers?” 

“ I wish I were,” returned Lawrence naively; “but I 
am happy to say there is a chance of my doing so.” 

“Eh, what? Come, tell me,” said the parson, drop- 
ping his reins on the neck of his discreet nag, and re- 
garding his young friend very kindly. “You know 
that if I have not always approved of your aspirations 
I have always sympathized with them.” 

“ I know that, indeed, sir, quite well,” said Lawrence 
gratefully. The slender barriers of reticence had been 
broken down at once by this appeal to his feelings; and 
he forthwith told the rector (what he had not intended 
to tell him) of his sending his MSS. to the London edi- 
tor, and how they had fared. 

“ But how came you to know of this Mr. Latham, who 
seems to have given you encouragement, though you 
must not count too much upon it? It is Walter Scott, I 
think, who tells us that literature is a good walking- 
stick but a very indifferent crutch.” 

“Well, Sir Charles Walden was so good as to give 
me a recommendation. He is staying at the hall just 
now.” 

“So I have heard, ” returned the rector dryly ; “and 
he takes an interest in you, does he, for your own sake, 
of course?” 


i 82 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


“I venture to think he does, sir; since literary mat- 
ters, he tells me, though he has an excellent taste in 
them, are n9t much in his line.” 

The rector smiled, not by any means in his usual 
genial way. “ You have found a strange door-keeper 
to the Temple of Fame, my lad.” 

“At all events, a very kind one,” put in Lawrence 
quickly. “ But for him the door might never have been 
opened. ” 

“Just so; and he has taken all this trouble — and he 
is a man who does not like trouble — solely upon your 
own account?” 

“ It seems so. Indeed, he has been so good as to in- 
vite me to return home with him next week. ” 

“ To Hurlby? I cannot say I am pleased to hear it.” 

“ Why not, sir?” 

“Well, it is rather difficult to say; but, for one thing, 
it suggests a family connection which I cannot but think 
far from desirable.” 

“A family connection?” exclaimed Lawrence with, 
amazement. 

• “Well, you surely cannot be ignorant of the common 
report that links Sir Charles’ name with that of your 
cousin.” 

“With Ruth?” replied the young man with indigna- 
tion. “ It is the silliest of all silly talk.” 

But even while he said the words the conversation of 
the previous evening recurred to him: the sensitiveness 
which Sir Charles had shown upon the subject of age, 
and the suspi^on it had at the time excited in his own 
breast. vStill, even now — though less, perhaps, from 
the unlikelihood of such a thing than from its dis- 
agreeableness — he did not seriously think there was 


AN OLD FRIEND. 183 

anything in it. Why, Sir Charles is old enough to be 
her grandfather. 

He had said that before to himself, and conviction 
had followed upon it ; but now that he said it aloud, it 
did not appear so convincing. 

The rector nodded an acquiescence, but so very 
gravely that the nod seemed to say : And the inequal- 
ity of age is not the worst of it.” 

Lawrence did not wish to enter upon that subject: 
his loyalty to his patron forbid it ; but it was impossible 
to shake off the suspicion that the other had excited. 

“ Then you think that all the kindness Sir Charles 
has shown me has been caused by self interest; that he 
wishes to ingratiate himself with me in order that I 
may say a good word for him to my cousin.” 

“ I don’t say that; I will not assert that I never heard 
of Sir Charles Walden doing anything creditable with- 
out a quid pro quo^ because I never heard of his doing it 
at all. But I certainly think it unlikely.” 

The force and severity of the censure, coming from 
such a quarter, fell upon Lawrence’s ear almost like a 
blow; but he instantly remembered the coldness with 
which Sir Charles had received the mention of Mr. 
Percy’s name when he had spoken of him as having 
been his tutor, and it struck him — with some sense of 
relief — that the two men must have had some personal 
quarrel. 

I am sorry you think so ill, sir, of one who has been 
so good to me,” he answered sorrowfully. “I am un- 
der great obligations to him. ” 

“He has not lent you money, I do hope,” said the 
rector earnestly, “ My purse is a slender one, as you 
know, Lawrence, but it is at your service, and it will 


184 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

be much better for'you, believe me, to be indebted to 
me than to him. ” 

“ Indeed, sir, there has been nothing of the kind be- 
tween us. The suggestion convinces me of your mis- 
judgment of him. He is a man of the greatest deli- 
cacy of mind. 

‘‘ Really?’' There was a folio of sarcasm in that sin- 
gle word, but the speaker did not continue the subject. 
‘‘ And how long do you propose to stay at Hurlby?” 

It was an unfortunate question. Lawrence had not 
the slightest scruple about deceiving his Uncle Robert 
or Aunt Jane, but with Mr. Percy it cost him a struggle 
not to be frank. That is not settled, sir, but probably 
only a few days,” he replied hesitatingly. 

“Well, well, you will at least remember, if this new 
friend of yours should fall short of your expectations, 
that you have an older one, who so far as he is able to 
help you can be depended upon. It is possible that 
outside the regions of periodical literature — with which, 
it seems, this gentleman has so unexpected an acquain- 
tance — ^my advice may be useful to you. I hope you 
will apply to me, my dear lad, in any trouble, as read- 
ily as you would have done in the old times.’' 

The speaker’s tone was earnest as well as tender. It 
had also a certain warning note in it, as though he fore- 
saw the trouble at which he hinted. 

If he had not sueceeded in setting Lawrence on his 
guard against the baronet, he had certainly shaken 
the young fellow's faith in him. Lawrence’s amour 
propre was wounded by the suggestion that Sir Charles’ 
interest in him, if not actually feigned, was mainly 
owing to a selfish motive. Another shadow had fallen 
upon the prospects which had dawned upon him that 


AN OLD FRIEND. 


185 


morning so brightly. He had the artistic tempera- 
ment, at least, however he might fall short in other 
attributes, and was as easily depressed as elevated. 
He was grateful, of course, to his old tutor for his offers 
of assistance and advice, and expressed himself to that 
effect ; but it was evident enough 'that he wished they 
had never been made. 

“You are coming on* to the hall, I hope,” said Law- 
rence, it must be owned with no great enthusiasm of 
welcome. 

“ No, my lad, no; not while you have company there. 
Besides, I have business at the mines. Remember 
what I have said, and whatever you do or wherever 
you go, God bless you, my lad. ” 

And the rector laid his hand upon his old pupil’s 
head as though to accentuate the benediction. 

It was certainly very unfortunate, reflected Lawrence 
as he turned toward home, that the only two men in 
the world whom he could call his friends were on bad 
terms with one another. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


IN CHURCH.* 

That Saturday evening was the first one since Sir 
Charles* arrival at the hall that he failed to come to 
Lawrence’s room with his little portmanteau full of 
cigars in the evening. Perhaps he had got a little 
tired of conversing upon a young man’s literary pros- 
pects in London. At all events, there was excuse 
enough in the fact that Lawrence and he were both 
bound for Hurlby Castle on the Monday, and would 
have plenty ^of time there for conversation. Far from 
any objection to the baronet’s invitation having been 
raised by Uncle Robert, he had received the news with 
effusion. As for setting it down to any regard enter- 
tained by Sir Charles for the lad himself, he had even 
less belief in it than Mr. Percy, and attributed it to the 
self-same cause. The man, he thought, must be pretty 
far gone with Ruth, since merely to please her he had 
shown such civility to her young cub of a cousin. The 
news, indeed, pleased him immensely, since it gave 
him ground for believing that the same tender motive 
would induce his guest to accommodate him with that 
little loan which his ill-luck on the turf had rendered 
so absolutely necessary. What was five thousand 
pounds to a man of Sir Charles’ wealth? Let alone the 
pleasure it must give him to have the opportunity of 

i86 


IN CHURCH. 187 

obliging a gentleman about to be nearly connected 
with him by family ties. 

The conviction, however, that this little matter would 
be happily settled did not prevent the squire from be- 
moaning his ill-fortune, and cursing his friend the par- 
son for having caused him, by his slipshod telegram, to 
believe, for the moment, that he had won instead of lost. 
None of us are thankful for the brief hour of happiness 
caused by a mistake of that nature, but are rather prone 
to dwell upon the disappointment that follows. But 
for the vicar, the squire would never have made a fool 
of himself in visiting Mr. Salesby and involuntarily 
making him the confidant of his trouble. Of the mag- 
nitude of this mistake, indeed, he had probably no con- 
ception ; but it was important to keep the whole matter 
from getting abroad. 

From the few passionate words he had dashed off in 
haste to Mr. Grueby, that gentleman would probably 
gather the squire’s feelings toward him, and that he 
had not replied or been in any hurry to return to Hills- 
land was not surprising. Moreover, when Mr. Grueby 
found himself in “the village,” which was his playful 
term for London, he always stopped there as long as he 
could, though, owing to the loss of his own “ half- 
crowns” upon the Derby favorite, he was not in a posi- 
tion on the present occasion to embroider his holiday 
with the usual amusements. Thus it happened that 
the first time Mr. Robert Stratton beheld his clerical 
friend after their common misfortune was in his own 
pulpit at Hillsland. 

The squire always went to church, as a duty owing 
to his position, though on this particular Sunday he 
was more actuated by the thought of what he owed to 


i88 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


Mr. Grueby. Mr. Salesby, which was by no means so 
usual, was also there ; he, too, was eager for discourse 
with the vicar as an eye-witness of those proceedings at 
Epsom which had terminated so satisfactorily in his 
own case. Lawrence was there because Kitty would 
be there ; so various are the motives that actuate peo- 
ple in their attendance at public worship. 

Before service Mr. Grueby was not to be approached. 
He avoided all temptations of secular conversation by 
shutting himself up in the vestry. 

“ I suppose,'" said Mr. Salesby, with a most impudent 
smile, to the squire when they met in the churchyard, 
“ that the vicar will take for his text to-day, "How the 
race is not always to the swift. ’ He must have Gany- 
mede a good deal upon his mind.’" 

The squire, who had Ganymede still more upon his 
mind, grinned a ghastly smile, which Miss Jane re- 
buked with a frown, under the mistaken impression 
that he was indulging in ill-timed levity. None of the 
hall party who trooped into the family pew that morn- 
ing could be reasonably accused of that crime, though 
their thoughts might not have been occupied as they 
should have been. Mrs. Merridew was thinking of her 
son, and whether or no he would ever again stand be- 
side her in that sacred place. He had told her of his 
plans for the future, in which she had but little hope. 
To his mother the lad was the last strand that bound 
her to the shore of life. Of his tenderness for Kitty 
she had heard from Aunt Jerry, but that matter did not 
disturb her as it had disturbed her informant Aunt 
Jerry was jealous of Lawrence upon Ruth’s account, 
which Mrs. Merridew was not. Ruth was penniless, as 
Kitty was, but her family would infinitely more resent 


IN CHURCH. 


l8o 


the young fellow’s engagement with her than with 
Kitty, inasmuch as a good match was expected of 
her. 

Ruth had her mind fixed upon the same subject, but 
regarded it from a very different standpoint. The most 
interesting object in the church for her that morning, 
one regrets to say, was by no means the officiating min- 
ister; she strove in vain to fix her wandering thoughts 
upon the service ; to keep her wandering gaze upon the 
prayer-book. They would stray to Mr. Salesby’s pew, 
where Kitty sat, calm and serene, to all appearance the 
model of a church-goer. Up to the present time she 
had awakened but little interest in Ruth; her ways 
were not Ruth’s ways, and she had received her good- 
natured advances toward acquaintanceship with some- 
thing like rudeness. She knew that Ruth felt nothing 
but kindness for her — pity for her position — for the life 
that, with a gambling and drunken father, and without 
one female friend in the world, was so certainly “on 
the down-grade;” and she resented it. There had even 
been a time when she had regarded Ruth with dislike 
and jealousy; she suspected her, quite justly, as it hap- 
pened, though upon the slightest grounds, of being in 
love with Lawrence ; and though she herself had never 
had any serious intention of encouraging the young 
fellow, she was quite willing to be the object of his 
adoration, and preferred it to be undivided. 

Her feelings, however, had undergone a change. She 
would still rather have married Lawrence Merridew 
than any other man she had ever seen; but her mind 
was practical. She was still, after a fashion, in love 
with him, but she was not in love with poverty, and she 
did not believe in literature as the way out of it. In 


190 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTO 


her heart of hearts she was glad that he was going 
away. 

Of these sentiments, of course, Ruth knew nothing. 
What she was saying to herself, instead of the responses, 
was: ‘'Is it possible dear Lawrence loves that girl? 
She is pretty; she has a beautiful figure; I dare say 
that a man who knows no better will think she is well 
dressed; but can a fine mind like his be seriously at- 
tracted by her?” Upon the whole she came to the 
agreeable conclusion that it couldn’t. And then un- 
fortunately she caught a glance of Lawrence’s half-way 
on its road to Kitty, and with a twinge at her heart 
that seemed to paralyze her very being, came to the 
contrary opinion. Aunt Jerry was right, then, after all. 
It was a terrible reflection for her, and little mitigated 
by the fact, which had, however, by no means escaped 
her observation, that Kitty did not return his glances. 
She was fully occupied, as any young woman in church 
was bound to be, with her prayer-book. 

Unconscious of the surveillance that was being exer- 
cised over him, it was only too true that Lawrence 
strove and strove again to win an answering glance 
from Kitty, as an angler throws his line again and 
again for a shy trout. Not that Kitty could be said to be 
shy, but only resolute to take no notice. Even when 
given to understand that they were purposely ignored, 
his glances circled round her pew like doves about a 
dove-cote, taking in all that the old-fashioned house of 
prayer afforded to the eye. 

In after-years, when everything had altered with 
him, and his whole life was turning on an undreamed-of 
pivot, that last visit of his to the old church often re- 
turned to him with great distinctness. For, resent it 


IN CHURCH. 


I9I 

though we may, it is the material scenes of onr lives 
that remain to ns, and survive to the last, while our 
hopes and fears, our beliefs and aspirations, change or 
die and are forgotten. There is a well-known saw: “ It 
will be all the same a hundred years hence;” and 
though, in fact, it will not be the same, but entirely 
different, the saying in its intended sense is a true 
one. 

The only person apparently quite untroubled in mind 
in the hall pew was Sir Charles Walden. He was very 
much “ at his ease in Zion not in the least impressed 
by the circumstance of his being in a house of worship, 
but nevertheless interested in it, as a novelty. The 
bassoon — or rather the man that played it and seemed 
part and portion of this instrument — attracted his atten- 
tion; and also the man that slept the sleep of the just 
in its immediate vicinity, and rivalled its performances^ 
with his nose. A smile flitted across the baronet’s 
features at every whack of the cane administered by the 
sexton to the school-boys, who, seated on open forms in 
the aisle — dangerously subject to observation — yet could 
not resist cracking the furtive nut and polishing the 
favorite marble. When subsequently asked by Miss 
Jane how he had liked ‘‘the service,” Sir Charles had 
been within an hair’s-breadth of replying that he had 
been very much amused; but with his usual tact and 
readiness he had pulled up on the edge of the precipice 
and expressed his admiration of the choir, which he 
knew to be under her especial patronage. This hap- 
pened as they were walking back from church, for no 
carriage ever left the hall on the Sabbath day. Sir 
Charles and Miss Jane — the most unsympathetic couple 
that could probably be found within the four seas — led 


192 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


the van, Mrs. Merridew, Ruth, and Lawrence bringing 
up the rear. These three, though sympathetic enough, 
hardly exchanged a word with one another. 

“ It is like a funeral procession !” moaned the unhappy 
baronet to himself. “ The chief mourners are behind, 
but I am the undertaker in charge of the body.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


SQUIRE AND PARSON. 

The squire had not accompanied the rest of the party 
home from church, and if he had done so it is probable 
that he would not have raised its standard of cheerful- 
ness. His thoughts, while his friend in the pulpit had 
discoursed upon heavenly matters — as well as could be 
expected from a sermon that cost him but ninepence ; 
for he bought them by the dozen — had been grave 
enough, though of the world worldly. Had he been a 
penitent, moved by the eloquence of the preacher to 
confess his sins, he could not have been in greater haste 
to see him ; and when the sermon was concluded his 
pastor found him waiting in the vestry. 

‘‘ ’Pon my life!” exclaimed the astonished divine, not 
yet divested of his gown. “ This really won’t do. Bob; 
it’s not decent.” 

“ Decent or not, it’s necessary, ” was the cool rejoinder. 
“ There’s Salesby waiting for you in the churchyard, 
and what I have to say to you is not for his ears. Let 
us go out by the back way.” 

Mr. Grueby’s dwelling, though small, was of good 
exterior, and in other hands might have been" made as 
pleasant as it was picturesque ; but both inside and out 
it had an appearance of neglect. Thanks to a former 
incumbent, there were still some flowers in its garden, 
and creepers hung over its porch and casements, hiding 

13 193 


194 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


with their lavish growth the evidences of decay. They 
darkened the low-ceilinged parlor into which the vicar 
led the way, and, until the eyes got accustomd to the 
gloom, concealed there the signs of poverty and neg- 
lect. The room was barely furnished, and the closed 
windows preserved an atmosphere of stale tobacco from 
any contamination with the outer air. 

“Your room stinks like a pot-house!” exclaimed the 
squire, though he had been there many a time before 
without complaining of it. “Why don't you let some 
air into it?” 

“ The window sticks a bit, ” replied the other. “ There, 
now you’ve done it.” 

The visitor had seized the offending frame, and, push- 
ing it vehemently, had opened the window — but by the 
unusual method of putting his hand through it. For 
the moment it seemed that the vicar and the squire 
had exchanged callings, and that it was the latter’s 
duty to read the Commination Service. 

“ I’ll ring for a sponge and some water,” observed the 
host apologetically. 

“ your sponge,” replied the guest, winding his 

handkerchief about his hand, which was bleeding freely. 
“ Let us hear your news, and be hanged to you.” 

“ It’s no use your putting yourself in a passion,” an- 
swered Mr. Grueby doggedly. “ I’m not to blame that 
you lost your money, and I’ve done the best for you I 
could, though bad’s the best.” 

“ I suppose so; it is not likely that a fellow that could 
send me such a fool’s telegram as you did could make 
a bargain with a baby. Well, what is the bargain?” 

Neither the words nor the tones of the speaker could 
be called conciliatory; but they produced no increase 


SQUIRE AND PARSON. 


195 


of irritation in his companion. The recollection of 
what was incumbent upon him as a divine, and upon a 
Sunday, too, perhaps caused him to exercise a moral 
restraint; or perhaps he was secretly well content that 
that unfortunate affair of the telegram had been got 
over, not indeed quite smoothly, but with comparative 
ease. 

“Well,’' he said, “ Burnes & Jessop will give you 
till Monday week to settle all in full. ” 

“ Will they, indeed !” was the grim rejoinder. “ They 
will be so good as to take five thousand pounds of mine 
a week after date, and charge me no interest for it, 
neither. Why, it’s quixotic.” 

“I don’t know about that,” continued Mr. Grueby 
indifferently, like a man who is no judge of the senti- 
mental emotions ; “ but that, they said, was their last 
word, and if the money was not paid by twelve o’clock 
they’d post you. ” 

The squire brought his hand down upon the table 
with an oath, and unfortunately it was the wounded 
hand. 

“ You had better let me send for a sponge,” murmured 
the vicar, when the storm had died away. 

“And Lazarus: what has Lazarus to say?” 

“ Oh, Lazarus — I always call him Dives, you know, 
which makes him wild — Lazarus will see you through 
it, upon good security, of course, if the money is paid 
him in six months, at twenty per cent.” 

“ Why, that's five hundred pounds! The cormorant!” 

“Begad, it’s a thousand! I’ve got the terms down 
in my pocket-book. He syas he knows nothing about 
per cent per annwnP' 

In a single sentence, and that a very short one, the 


196 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

squire consigned the whole Hebrew race to everlasting 
perdition. 

“By all means/’ said the vicar approvingly; “but 
that won’t pay the money, you know. ’’ 

Considering his intimate personal relations with the 
squire, Mr. Grueby’s manner was scarcely sympathetic. 
The fact is , he was “ in a hole,’’ as he expressed it, him- 
self, and under these circumstances it is not unpleasant 
to some people to have a companion — or, what is bet- 
ter, to see a friend in a still deeper hole. The satisfac- 
tion, however, such as it was, was short-lived. 

“As to the money,’’ observed Mr. Robert indiffer- 
ently, “it so happens that there will be no trouble 
about it. It will probably be sent off by to-night’s 
post; but I shall not forget the manner in which 
Burnes & Jessop have behaved to me. They shall have 
a bit of my mind with the check. ” 

It was perhaps because that very respectable firm of 
book-makers was known to Mr. Grueby that this men- 
ace produced but little effect upon him. He justly con- 
cluded that the check would make up to them for any 
expression of irritation that might accompany it. His 
mind was monopolized by the information that there 
was to be a check. 

‘‘So the governor will come down with it, will he? 
Well, upon my life, it’s very handsome of him, and a 
thing I should never have expected. So the storm’s 
over, is it? Well I should never have guessed it to 
look at you.” 

“ It will be over to-night, I hope. ” 

“Oh, I see; matters are not quite settled yet. Now 
look here, Bob: in my little way I’ve been hit as hard 
as you with Ganymede. Just make it guineas instead 


SQUIRE AND PARSON. 


197 


of- pounds — it cannot make any difference to the old 
gentleman — and help me out of my difficulty with the 
odd shillings. I’ve always been your friend, you know, 
and kept a close tongue; and if you will, upon my life, 
there’s nothing — nothing — that I won’t do for you.” 

The squire took his chin in his unwounded hand and 
stroked it, as his manner was, when engaged in thought. 
It would, indeed, be as easy for him — or as difficult — to 
raise the guineas as the pounds, and the additional 
sense of obligation did not weigh with him a feather. 
Circumstances might arise — though he hoped they 
would not do so — that would make the vicar’s help of 
consequence to him. 

I’ll do it,” he said, after a pause. “ If the governor 
does not shell out, Lazarus shall make it guineas.” 

“Upon my life, you’re a deuced good fellow!” ex- 
claimed the vicar, in a tone in which surprise mingled 
with satisfaction. “And, by-the-by, how’s your wife? 
I hope she has ceased to give you cause for anxiety?” 

“ Never you mind my wife,” was the unexpected re- 
joinder, delivered with such vehemence as to be almost 
ferocity; “and don’t you go meddling with the gover- 
nor, as you call him, or mixing yourself up with any 
of my family affairs. Mind that!” 

The vicar looked aghast, as well he might, for never, 
surely, had amiable inquiry been received in such a 
hostile spirit. However, he had the promise of a loan, 
which made amends for much amiss in the way of tone 
or manner. 

“I am the last person to meddle,” he said humbly, 
“ and only wish to be of service to you. And — why, 
squire, you’re dripping with blood!” 

Mr. Robert, who had been standing up throughout 


198 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

the interview, here dropped into a chair, as though the 
last word had been a bullet. 

“Blood! Whose blood?” he asked in tremulous 
tones. 

“ Why, your own, of course ; your hand is bleeding 
like a pig. Do let me send for a sponge.” 

‘‘ Brandy,, brandy, you fool ; I’m faint, ” murmured the 
squire. 

This restorative ' was fortunately at hand — indeed, 
the vicar kept a bottle of it in the cupboard of the 
bookcase which contained his theological library. The 
sponge and water were sent for at last, and Mr. Grueby 
showed not a little intrepidity as well as skill in remov- 
ing the broken glass from the squire’s hand under a 
very heavy fire of imprecations. He had not expected 
him to be a good patient, but it did amaze this good 
Samaritan that the other should have been so affected 
by the sight of blood. “ One would have thought,” he 
said to himself, when the operation had been success- 
fully performed and the squire had left him, “ that he 
had been a better plucked one.” 

In this the vicar did not do the squire justice. Rob- 
ert Stratton had plenty of brute courage. If it be true 
that a bully is always a coward — which at least one 
great student of human nature has taken leave to doubt — 
he was an exception to that rule. But though far from 
humane, he was human; and a certain thought which he 
had of late harbored in his mind had suddenly presented 
itself before him in its very ugliest form and unmanned 
him. Even the “ Fighting Fifth” was subject to panic. 

When Mr. Robert had said that that little matter (of 
lending him five thousand pounds) between himself and 
his father was “not settled,” he had, to a certain ex- 


SQUIRE AND PARSON. 


199 


tent, spoken the truth ; for a thing can scarcely be said 
to be quite settled concerning which not one word has 
yet been spoken. Nor, indeed, so far as the ex-com- 
misssioner was concerned, was it likely to be. With 
the firm of Burnes & Jessop the squire had done an 
extensive business for years, but never on so large a 
scale as on the present occasion. Their threat of “ post- 
ing” him did not of itself disturb him ; but such a step 
would involve disclosure; he would stand before his 
father in his true colors, and that would spell ruin. If 
he could not raise the required sum within the week, he 
would have to apply to Lazarus, And here again it 
was not the monstrous percentage that gentleman 
charged which frightened him. Though mean and 
grasping, he was not a miser like his sister Jane. If 
he had to pay five thousand pounds, it might just as 
well be six thousand. But where was he to get the 
security to satisfy so exacting a creditor? There was 
only one quarter where he could look for it, and that at 
a terrible sacrifice. It was possible that his wife might 
help him, but at the utter loss of her respect, obe- 
dience, and confidence in him. 

The humiliation that confession would entail upon 
him was hateful to contemplate ; and what was worse 
than all, he felt that he might humiliate himself in 
vain. In spite of her weak and affected ways, he knew 
that a vein of obstinacy ran through his wife’s nature. 
How would his Popsey” like a demand from him for 
five thousand guineas lost upon a horse-race? Her 
money was her own so long as she lived, though after 
her death, in default of issue, it reverted to him ; and 
she inherited along with her father’s wealth his love 
of it. Her delicate fingers would probably hold their 


200 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


own with a tenacity not inferior to those of Mr. Laz- 
arus. 

However, the hopes of Mr. Robert Stratton were cen- 
tred for the present neither in his father nor his wife, 
but in that honored guest whom he believed to be pant- 
ing for the distinction of becoming his nephew by mar- 
riage. 


CHAPTER XXVL 


A FAVOR REFUSED. 

Though it is the fashion to speak with admiration of 
a person who has a great reputation for sociability and 
agreeableness, it is really only a few who appreciate 
him; and it is their testimonial, and not his talents, 
which win the general applause. This was strikingly 
exemplified in the case of Sir Charles Walden and his 
entertainers at Hillsland Hall. They had derived from 
his society not one whit more pleasure than he had de- 
rived from theirs, and supposing that the purpose for 
which they invited him had been accomplished, they 
were on the whole very glad to get rid of him. The 
last evening of his stay was passed, in the company of 
his host and his son, in the old gentleman’s private 
room. 

Sir Charles, having a shrewd suspicion that Lawrence 
would never return home again, altered his role, and 
spoke with praise of the boy’s character and literary 
promise. 

The two men listened in silence; Mr. Robert with 
marked attention, and the ex-commissioner with in- 
credulous astonishment. 

“ I am glad you have discovered something m the 
lad. Sir Charles, which has escaped the notice of his 
pastors and masters,” he replied, with a wave of his 
hookah. “ I have had some little experience in litera- 

201 


202 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


ture myself. In my youth I distinguished myself as a 
prkis writer, and as an administrator upon a rather ex- 
tensive scale. My reports were considered models. 
Perhaps some of the talent may have descended.’’ 

“ Perhaps, ” said Sir Charles thoughtfully; ‘‘though 
Lawrence’s gift is not precisely of the same character.” 

The ex-commissioner blew through his tube (as an 
elephant trumpets) in his cordial approval of this view, 
which hardly, however, went far enough. 

“ I was wondering,” pursued the baronet, with gentle 
suavity, “ if the lad should really show any practical 
talent with his pen, whether you could be persuaded to 
let him follow that line of life. What is proposed for 
him at Singapore seems not very well suited to him. ” 

At these words a yellow tooth, like a tiger’s fang in 
miniature, emerged from the ex-commissioner’s lips 
and fastened upon the lower one. It was a storm sig- 
nal that Mr. Robert well understood, and the warning 
glance he threw at his father did not escape Sir Charles’ 
notice. The host was not unmoved by it, and ex- 
changed at once what would certainly have been a de- 
nunciatory tone for a didactic one. 

“When we are young, my dear Sir Charles, we sel- 
dom know what is good for us. There is no reason 
why this foolish boy should not cultivate his gift in 
letters, if he really has any, as well at Singapore as 
anywhere else. There are mails, I believe, at least 
once a fortnight. But as for his giving up the excel- 
lent appointment which my influence has procured him 
there, and taking to a precarious and not very respect- 
able calling, in which, too, he would be an expense to 
his family,” and here he turned to his son, like one who 
is certain of having found an argument which would 


A FAVOR REFUSED. 


203 


iiivStire an advocate, ‘‘I don't 'think that either Robert, 
who has hitherto had the management of the boy, or 
myself could consent to that. " 

“Let ns rather say,’" said Mr. Robert quietly, “that 
the subject will at least require a little consideration. 
Your suggestion has come upon us. Sir Charles, as a 
surprise. Had it originated with any other quarter, 
I should certainly have met it with a negative; but 
considering your great knowledge of the world, and 
also the compliment you pay us in the interest thus 
manifested in our young relation, it would be discour- 
teous to so dispose of the matter.” 

The baronet smiled and bowed. He quite under- 
stood that Mr. Robert had said “no” as distinctly as his 
father had, though in a more round-about fashion. 

“ It is quite true. Sir Charles,” resumed the old gen- 
tleman blandly, “ that you can, as my son suggests, lay 
claim to a far greater knowledge of the world than most 
men; but it is the world of England rather than that 
of her dependencies. Now, of those, I have, perhaps, 
a larger knowledge. Its opportunities for a young fel- 
low such as Lawrence are great and numerous, and let 
us hope he will take advantage of them. You see here, 
in my humble person ” (the pride that swelled him, as 
he so described himself, was marvellous to witness), “ an 
example of what can be effected in those regions by 
one who went thither without wealth or interest to as- 
sist him. I was always ready to lay my hand to any- 
thing; nothing came amiss to me. As the poet says, 
the lyre, the pen, the sword.” 

If Sir Charles’ reflections could have been conveyed 
in speech, he would have said: “You remind me most 
of the liar; as to the sword, I believe you have never 


204 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


drawn one, but only the long bow (and perhaps a bill) 
and your pension. ” But none of these sentiments could 
be gathered from his face, which expressed nothing but 
admiration and credulity. 

“No, Sir Charles,” concluded the ex-commissioner, 
“ I am afraid we must still say Singapore for my grand- 
son.” 

It was clear enough from his manner that there was 
nothing more to be said on that point by any one else. 
The baronet was not disappointed, for he had expected 
no other result, but he was exceedingly displeased. He 
was not accustomed to ask a favor and be refused. Sir 
Charles’ pride was hurt; and his dislike of those by 
whom the wound had been inflicted was intensified 
by it. 

Though the ex-commissioner had no idea of retracing 
his steps, he perceived, by his guest’s silence, that he 
had gone too far; and the glances of disapprobation his 
son cast at him heightened his discomfort. That he 
entirely agreed with the determination he had ex- 
pressed he was, of course, aware; but that afforded him 
no satisfaetion. Robert evidently feared that he had 
given the baronet serious offence, and, what was worse, 
he himself felt that it was so. It was a monstrous 
thing, of course, that a man in his position could not 
do what he pleased with his own, without being taken 
to task for it by an impudent fellow; but when the fel- 
low is a baronet with thirty thousand a year, and one 
wants him for a grandson, his impudence is rather to 
be regretted than resented. The ex-commissioner, in- 
deed, was pale with rage and fear, and wore such a 
haggard look under his skull-cap that Sir Charles after- 
ward described himself — to one who appreciated his 


A FAVOR REFUSED. 205 

humor — as never having felt so near to Death’' in his 
life. 

Conversation among the three gentlemen languished, 
and it was felt to be a great relief by at least two of 
them when the guest rose to depart upon the transpar- 
ent plea that his departure the next morning had to be 
an early one. 

Mr. Robert insisted on accompanying him to his 
room in spite of protest, and, indeed, his offer was by 
no means one of compliment or dictated by the duties 
of hospitality, nor did it surprise the object of that 
courtesy, who thought it likely enough the other 
wanted just to smooth matters, and rather enjoyed the 
reflection that he would utterly fail in doing so. 

feel, my dear Sir Charles,” said Mr. Robert, so 
soon as they were alone together, ‘‘ that I owe you an 
apology for my father’s somewhat curt behavior to you 
this evening.” 

“ Not at all,” returned the other. On the contrary, 
I feel justly reproved for meddling in a domestic mat- 
ter with which I have no sort of concern. ” 

Pray do not say that,” replied the squire, with gen- 
uine earnestness. It is a most deplorable circum- 
stance, but the fact is that your young friend Lawrence 
is rather a sore subject with my father.” 

“Then don’t let’s talk about it,” said Sir Charles, 
smiling coldly, and holding out a very stiff hand of 
farewell. 

“One moment,” said Mr. Robert, closing the open 
door at which they stood, and putting himself inside 
instead of outside of it. “ I should like to have a few 
words with you, if you will allow me.” 

“ By all means; sit down and take a cigar,” said Sir 


2o6 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


Charles. His tone was studiously indifferent; but he 
was curious to know what the man had to say to him. 
That he wanted something was pretty certain, though 
not so certain as that he wouldn’t get it. Though he 
hated his society, the chance of an opportunity of play- 
ing this tyrannical bully as an angler plays a trout 
was gratifying to him. The knowledge that he was 
trading upon his niece’s chances greatly increased his 
disgust for him. An appeal ad 7nisericordiam was not, 
indeed, what he anticipated ; but if such a thing was 
contemplated, the petitioner, could he have looked into 
the other’s heart, might have saved his breath. On the 
other hand, could Sir Charles have looked into the 
squire’s heart, and beheld the grim work that was going 
on in it, it is probable — though not for the squire’s sake 
— that he would have been of a more pliant mind. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


A littlp: favor. 

“With regard to the lad in whom you have been so 
good as to interest yourself, ” said Mr. Robert, his shifty 
eyes upon the carpet, and a certain doggedness of man- 
ner, as of one compelled to speak upon a subject dis- 
agreeable to him, “I must, notwithstanding your pro- 
test, just say one word in justice to my father. He has 
had some cause for displeasure — or, rather, let me say, 
for disappointment— in the boy, which may excuse an 
apparent harshness of manner when speaking of Law- 
rence. He has done his best — or what seemed to be 
so — for him, with not very satisfactory results; and he 
has exerted influence for him abroad, in hopes that he 
may succeed better than in England. This will entail 

a considerable expense in outfit 

“ Not if he has the same sort of outfit that he has at 
home,” interposed Sir Charles dryly. 

“ Well, really, if you mean clothes, and so on, these 
little matters have been hitherto left to his Aunt Jane.” 

“Who naturally knows nothing about them,” put in 
the other sharply. “ That is so far an excuse for her. 
But Lawrence is no longer a boy to be left in leading- 
strings. You, Mr. Stratton, who have been a young 
man yourself, should have understood how humiliating 
must be such a position. Even a less sensitive nature 
than that of your nephew would have resented it. Take 

207 


2o8 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


your own, for instance. How would have liked at 
his age to find yourself without pocket-money or a suit 
of decent clothes? Of course, I have no right '' 

“Nay, you have every right,'’ murmured the squire, 
in a voice that he vainly endeavored to render concilia- 
tory. It was like the growl of a dog who retreats under 
the table because the time for biting is not opportune. 

“Well, at all events, since you have forced the sub- 
ject upon me, I will speak plainly. The lad is starved, 
as it were, in a land of plenty. There is money at 
Hillsland for everybody but himself, and there is no 
opportunity missed of making him feel that he is a 
dependent.” 

“ I will see that he has pocket-money and a proper 
wardrobe. Indeed, I have made such arrangements as 
were possible as regards the latter already. I had rep- 
resented to my sister that since you had honored him 
by an invitation to Hurl by it would be only fitting ” 

“ Oh, pray do not bring me into the matter, Mr. Strat- 
ton, ” exclaimed the baronet warmly. “It does not 
mend matters to tell me that if your nephew were not 
coming to Hurlby he would remain in rags. The state 
of his wardrobe is nothing to me; but to be so treated 
must be a bitter mortification to any young man, and 
you know it.” 

There was cause for quarrel, and plenty of it, in the 
baronet’s tone, as well as in his words. He could not 
resist the opportunity of hinting to the squire the 
opinion he had formed of him ; but, curiously enough, 
Mr. Robert, never much influenced by “opinion,” was 
not altogether displeased at the course matters had 
taken. He had persuaded himself that Sir Charles 
was not angry upon Lawrence’s account, but on his 


A LITTLE FAVOR. 


209 


own; and that he resented the lad’s “rags” because 
they reflected upon the connection that he himself was 
about to make through marriage with his cousin. The 
big fish, it seemed, was landed after all. Still, the 
present conversation was neither a good omen nor a 
favorable introduction to the matter the squire had in 
his mind. 

“I hope,” he said, “Lawrence will show himself 
grateful for your kindness to him. Sir Charles.” 

“ The obligation, so far as his visit to Hurlby is con- 
cerned, I consider to be quite on the other side,” re- 
turned the other. “ He is a most agreeable companion. ” 

“ And I dare say you find living all alone at the cas- 
tle a little triste.'' 

This was, in Mr. Robert’s opinion, quite a Machiavel- 
ian remark; he thought it might even “ draw” his com- 
panion to admit as much, and hint that that drawback 
of loneliness was about to be remedied in a very grati- 
fying manner. But it did nothing of the kind. The 
other smoked on in silence. 

“ There is a private matter I wish to speak to you 
about, Sir Charles,” said the squire desperately, and 
taking his courage in both hands. 

“A private matter!” Sir Charles raised his eyebrows. 
“ Really!” His tone was incurious, even indifferent. 

“Yes; I have got a little favor to ask of you. With 
most people it would be a great favor, but in your case, 
I venture to think that, though of some magnitude, it 
will cause you no serious inconvenienee. I want you, 
for a few months only, to be so good as to lend me five 
thousand .pounds. ” 

“ Really,” said the baronet again, in exactly the same 
tone. “ That is a large sum. ” 

14 


2 10 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


“ It would, of course, as I have said, seem a large 
sum to most people.” 

‘‘ It seems a large sum to said the baronet. 

“Well, of course, in a way it does; and if the loan 
was not a merely temporary one, I should hesitate to 
apply for it, even to you. It would, however, just now, 
be of immense service, and I have immediate need 
of it.” 

“The Derby?” suggested Sir Charles. 

“ Why, yes. I had the best information about Gany- 
mede — it seemed a moral ; but somehow it did not come 
off.” 

“Things do go that way on the turf occasionally. 
Let us hope you will have better luck next time.” 

“Well, no; I have done with it. What has happened 
will be a lesson to me. Never will I bet again.” 

“ In that case the misfortune may prove a blessing in 
disguise,” said the baronet philosophically, and flick- 
ing at his cigar- ash, which was a very long one. 

“ Perhaps. But in the mean time the disguise is so 
perfect that the blessing has the appearance of a disas- 
ter. I must raise the money somehow, and at once.” 

“ And from what I gathered the other night of your 
father’s sentiments, he would not, I suppose, be in- 
clined to assist you?” 

“ He would see me — well, at all events, he would not 
do it. That’s certain. Nothing but the urgency of 
the case would have compelled me to apply to you for 
assistance. It distresses me to do so very much. To 
borrow money of one’s friend — one’s guest — is deplora- 
ble ; still you will make allowance for my painful posi- 
tion.” 

“ This sum is a debt of honor, I conclude, which you 


A LITTLE FAVOR. 


21 I 


have incurred without the means of discharging it. If 
you had won you would have pulled off a very large 
stake. ” 

“ That’s just it. I felt I was dealing with a man of 
the world, who would understand things.” Sir Charles’ 
satire had flown over his head; he imagined that an 
excuse had been made for him. ‘‘ May I hope that you 
will lend me the money?” 

“You may hope, of course,” said the other, smiling. 
“‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast,’ as Law- 
rence would say — the lad is full of quotation; but at 
present I can promise you nothing. When I get home 
I will ask my secretary, who keeps my banking book 
for me. I have generally a pretty good balance, I be- 
lieve. If I can oblige you, you will hear from me by 
to-morrow’s post. And now, I am afraid I must say 
ail revoir^ as my night will be a short one. ” 

He held out his hand, which the other seized and 
squeezed with effusion. It was like wringing a dry 
towel. Still the squire had some hope. He had not, 
at least, received that point-blank refusal which had 
been quite on the cards. Sir Charles had the reputa- 
tion of keeping a very large balance at his banker’s. 
He had asked for .no security, which, indeed, was for- 
tunate, since insistance on that point would have been 
fatal. And yet Mr. Robert was far from comfortable in 
his mind about the money. He had certainly not found 
his friend so “ accommodating” as he had expected. 
If he could have looked into the other’s heart, or even 
into his room, now that the door was between them, 
he would have felt still less satisfied at the result of 
their interview. Directly he was alone. Sir Charles 
had thrown himself upon the sofa and burst out laugh- 


2T2 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


ing. He was not in such a very great hurry to go to 
bed, after all, it seemed, for he sat up smoking cigar 
after cigar, sometimes with a face grave enough, but 
every now and then the recollection of Mr. Robert's 
conciliatory manners — when applying for a loan — oc- 
curred to him, and it always evoked his mirth. 

“ He is like a snob in evening dress,” he muttered to 
himself: ‘‘ten times worse than in his ordinary stripes 
and checks.” And he made up his mind that the squire 
might have as many stripes as fortune — or justice — 
might please to send ; but not one check from him. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


FAREWELL. 

In the morning, neither the ex-commissioner nor his 
son bade farewell to their guest. The former, indeed, 
rarely left his couch till mid-day, and the latter sent 
word that close attendance on his wife, whose malady 
had assumed a serious form, would prevent him leaving 
her apartment. Perhaps he wisely thought that the 
less he and his hoped-for creditor saw of one another 
the better chance he had of obtaining his loan ; or per- 
haps he felt that the spectacle of his nephew sitting in 
the baronet’s carriage as his invited guest, and full of 
reminiscences of his uncle, would be too much for his 
temper. If he did not get the money, he was fully 
resolved that Master Lawrence, when he returned to 
Hillsland, should smart for it. 

Aunt Jerry, of course, was in bed, much more se- 
riously amiss than Mrs. Robert, though no such fuss 
was made about it; so that the breakfast party was lim- 
ited to the three other ladies, the baronet, and Law- 
rence. 

Miss Jane was very gracious. It was important to 
leave a good impression upon their departing guest, 
and her face was wreathed in genuine smiles, for she 
was exceedingly glad to get rid of him. His presence 
had been a restraint upon her in many ways; it had 
obliged her to curb her temper, and especially to extend 

213 


214 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON 


a certain tolerance toward Lawrence, the necessity for 
which she resented. Nevertheless, even on this occa- 
sion she could not help taking a parting shot at him. 

“I hope/' she said, '"you boy, that you will behave 
yourself properly at Hurlby, and not give cause to Sir 
Charles to repent of his good nature.” 

This was said at the breakfast-table in the presence of 
them all, including Mrs. Merridew, who flushed, poor 
woman, to her forehead, but said nothing. Lawrence, 
too, went on with his egg in contemptuous silence, 

‘ I don't think Lawrence and I are likely to quarrel. 
Miss Stratton,” observed Sir Charles dryly. “One can 
hardly call him a spoiled boy.” 

The adjective was equal to a folio of satire, and 
knocked Miss Jane ‘‘out of time.” She glanced at the 
baronet in what was, to say the least of it, a very inhos- 
pitable manner, and remained speechless for the rest of 
the meal. 

Tt was the first time that any observation had been 
made in that house upon the young fellow’s treatment, 
and Mrs. Merridew snatched from it a fearful joy, which 
she did not dare exhibit. Ruth, however, thanked the 
baronet with her beautiful eyes, and when the two 
women found themselves alone with him afterward 
they both expressed their gratitude. 

” It will do no good,” sighed Mrs. Merridew; “but it 
was very noble of you to say what you did about my 
poor boy.” 

“ It did 07 ie good, at all events,” said Ruth, with flash- 
ing eyes, “ to hear you. Oh, would that I were a man, 
that I could tell them all what I think of them!” 

“You are much better as you are, believe me,” an 
swered Sir Charles gently. “ Moreover,” he added, 


FAREWELL. 


2IS 


gayly, “it seems, from your aunt’s example, that one 
does not require to be of the sterner sex to say exactly 
what one thinks of other people.” Then he went on to 
say that he would take great care of Lawrence (which 
they didn t doubt), an4 a number of other friendly 
things, which to those who have no friends are better 
than rubies. To Mrs. Merridew, in whom the design 
in progress for Lawrence’s future was looked upon with 
natural apprehension, he confined himself to these gen- 
eralities, but in his leave-taking with Ruth he was con- 
fidential enough. He had, indeed, been within a very 
little of falling in love with her; but that was over 
now; and though his amour propre had been slightly 
wounded in the matter, he felt not a spark of indigna- 
tion against her. He not only admired, but, what was 
much more unusual with him, respected the girl. 
Strange to say, even her love for her cousin was a fac- 
tor in his own regard for Lawrence, and in a vague sort 
of way he wished it a successful issue. That it was the 
best thing that could happen to Lawrence he well per- 
ceived, though, thanks to the young fellow’s blindness, 
no less than to the material obstacles in the way of their 
union, it was not at all likely to happen. 

“ Lawrence, of course, will write to you, my dear 
Miss Ruth, and tell you how our plot goes on. It is a 
good plot. ” 

“He will write to his mother, at all events,” said 
Ruth, with a little sigh. “We shall be interested about 
it, of course.” 

“No doubt,” said Sir Charles, perhaps with more 
significance than he intended, for the words brought a 
quick flush to her face. “ And now and then I hope 
you will deign to think of me.” 


2i6 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


“ I shall always think of yon, Sir Charles, with grati- 
tude and respect. ” 

“ In that case your kindness will be entirely unde- 
served,” was the unexpected reply. “If I have won 
respect from one like yoUj it must have been under 
false pretences. No, dear Miss Ruth, the most I hope 
for is that when you hear me spoken ill of, as must 
needs happen, you will say to yourself: ‘There were 
some grains of good — or, at all events, of tenderness — 
in the man, nevertheless. ’ ” 

“ I shall say that and more to your detractors, and not 
only to myself,'* she answered, with spirit. “ I am not 
always a coward, as I was this morning. ’* 

“No, you are not a coward. You have a noble na- 
ture,” he answered, with her hand in his. “ I trust you 
may find some one someday who can not only appreciate 
it, which even I can do, but who may be more worthy 
of it. To Mrs. Merridew just now, for a reason that 
you will understand, I said au revoirj but to you I say 
good-by.” 

In a moment he was gone like one who fears to stay ; 
but Ruth never forgot his last word or his last look. 
There are moments when, for the most jaundiced eye, 
there is a glimpse of heaven; and while the man of 
the world was bidding the girl adieu, all sorts of possi- 
bilities of good flashed upon his mind with the speed — 
and, alas! the brevity — of lightning. 

In the hall, where Mrs. Merridew was giving a tear- 
ful farewell to her boy, he was himself again. “You 
are taking from me, though I trust for his good,” said 
the lady, “my only treasure.” 

“ That is the one scruple I feel, ” answered the baronet, 
in significant allusion to their little conspiracy. “ But 


FAREWELL. 


217 


he was not happy here, and you would rather be made 
unhappy by his absence than by seeing him unhappy.” 

“That is what I am trying to think,” she answered, 
smiling through her tears. 

“Upon my life,” said Sir Charles to Lawrence, as 
the carriage rolled away, “ I should like to have taken 
your mother and cousin with us to Hurlby, and left the 
rest of your belongings to stew in their own juice.” 

“ I beg you will not abuse my belongings. Sir 
Charles,” returned the young fellow gravely, “if, at 
least, they include my excellent uncle.” 

“ Oh, Uncle Robert has been giving you the smooth 
side of his tongue for once, has he?” returned the bar- 
onet, with twinkling eyes. 

“Yes, it is nothing less than a miracle. He came 
into my room just now as I was packing up — I thought 
to murder me; he looked like it — and gave me this. It 
is a check from my grandfather for fifty pounds, to buy 
\^hat he called a wardrobe. He meant, I suppose, the 
clothes to put in it. I could scarcely believe my eyes 
or my ears. ” 

“Very good — and disinterested — of your uncle,” ob- 
served Sir Charles dryly. 

“So he said. He also bade me remember the fact 
when speaking of him to you. He said he should 
surely know how I spoke of him, so that it behooved 
me to be very careful. One has heard of gilding the 
pill, but to accompany the gift with a menace is the 
converse proceeding.” 

“That is very true, my lad; but you have got his 
fifty pounds. I said they had not sipoiled you; but, by 
Jove, you have spoiled the Egyptians — which, as Mr. 
Pecksniff says, is very soothing!” 


2i8 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


“On the other hand, when I am gone,” sighed Law- 
rence, “and don't come back again, I fear my ‘ingrati- 
tude’ will be visited upon my poor mother. Oh, how 
I wish I could make a home for her — and for dear Ruth 
too — where we could all live together in peace!” 

“Your ambition is growing. Lorry. First you wanted 
to make your own living; then to ‘make a home’ for 
the young lady at ‘The Corner;’ and now you desire a 
quartette.” 

“ Pray, don’t laugh at me. Sir Charles.” 

“ I am far from laughing, my dear boy. The matter 
is serious, because you are so unreasonable. The very 
best you can hope for from your pen for a long time to 
come is to keep the wolf from your own door. As to 
your mother, that is different. It is possible that, with 
what little she may have of her own, you may at no 
very distant date be able to keep house together. But 
to hamper yourself with an engagement ” 

“ I have not done that,” put in the young fellow bit- 
terly. 

“ I am glad to hear you say so,” pursued the other, 
dryly. “ It would have been madness.” 

“ I should, nevertheless, have been a madman if I 
could,” answered Lawrence gravely. 

“ Miss Kitty then, I gather, was sane. ” 

“ She shrank, not from me — for I know she loves me 
dearly — but from my poor prospects. I do not blame 
her. She has had too cruel an experience of poverty 
herself. But if I ever make my way in the world — oh, 
sir, if I could win that woman, I would love her as wife 
was never loved!” 

“That resolve is in ‘Locksley Hall,’ my lad. You 
remember how the affair came off.” 


FAREWELL. 


219 

‘^Yes; but even if Kitty behaved as ‘Cousin Amy’ 
did, I should not be bitter against her.” 

“ Quite right. Moreover, the bard, when his judg- 
ment was matured, wrote a poem on the same subject, 
you know, approving of the young person’s behavior to 
him. ” 

It was hardly a question on which a young man was 
likely to agree with an elderly one ; but Lawrence was 
far from feeling annoyed with his patron for thus pur- 
^suing it. It was only another proof of the personal in- 
terest his companion took in him. 

It was almost the only topic, however, on which they 
had hitherto conversed in which they were not in ac- 
cord, and the discussion, which he closed, left an un- 
wonted silence behind it. Sir Charles was wrapt in 
his own thoughts and his external, or rather eternally 
renewed cigar. Lawrence had probably even more 
subjects of reflection, though more easy to guess. Sunk 
in these dreams, he noticed neither the flight of time 
nor the smooth passage of the wheels through space, 
till his companion gently said, ‘‘There’s Hurlby.” 

It was still far away, but its vast proportions had 
begun to dominate the landscape. “ A castle set on a 
hill,” or, rather, on the side of one, backed by great 
woods and belted by a river. In size, even Hillsland 
Hall was a cottage compared with it, while in beauty of 
architecture Hurlby was as far superior to it as it was 
in age. It seemed to Lawrence as though he had been 
only awakened from one dream to fall into another. 
Tower on tower rose “ like cloud on cloud,” and from 
the topmost, whence unseen eyes were doubtless watch- 
ing their approach, there presently shot out a banner, 
like a tongue of flame. 


220 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINCxTON. 


“ The castle’s welcome to its master,” exclaimed the 
young fellow. 

“Let us say rather to its guest, ” replied the other, 
smiling. 

It was perhaps an exaggeration of courtesy, but it 
became the speaker. Even Sir Charles Walden’s de- 
tractors — and he had many — were compelled to admit 
that “ he had a very pretty way with him, ” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


AT HURLEY. 

There were a good many things in Hurlby Castle 
which excited, as well they might, the admiration of the 
county; but what most evoked its astonishment was its 
wealth of books. A library, of course, was something 
that no gentleman’s mansion should be without; but 
there is a medium in all things, and his neighbors rather 
resented this excessive profusion of literature. They 
even attributed to it his unneighborly seclusion. 

“ I dare say,” he said to Lawrence, “that while you 
are here I can get some people who are not very partic- 
ular (I mean, as regards myself) to come and meet you ; 
but I really think we shall be more comfortable alone. 
The day before I went to Hillsland I met our squire, 
who (when away from his wife) is perfectly affable to 
me. ‘Well, Sir Charles,’ he said, with much cheerful 
energy, ‘so you are lowering your fences. ’ It was not 
an interesting observation, was it? Of course I knew 
that I was lowering my fences. If he had told me that 
he was lowering my fences, he would at least (though 
I should not have cared for it) have conveyed some in- 
formation to me. You shall meet the squire, if you 
like.” 

But Lawrence did not care to meet . the squire, and 
Sir Charles and his guest passed the time alone to- 
gether. With the latter, it went very quickly. The 

221 


222 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


castle was full of everything in which the hall was de- 
ficient: of pictures and statues and books. The whole 
life was new to him — the hushed and stately attendants, 
and the manner in which they seemed to anticipate his 
wants; the splendor of the plate, the richness of the 
banquets, the perfection of the wines; aboVe all, the 
feeling that he was the centre of attention who was 
wont to be utterly neglected and ignored. It is no won- 
der that he felt at times like Christopher Sly in the 
play. That there were chambers in this Bluebeard’s 
castle into which he was not invited by no means de- 
creased his sense of satisfaction ; the semi-seclusion of 
his host seemed not only natural enough, but was wel- 
come to him. While it left him leisure to do exactly 
what he liked, it never trenched upon the duties of hos- 
pitality. He saw a great deal of his host, and the more 
he saw — though he was conscious that he only saw 
what he was meant to see, that most of Sir Charles* 
character was a blank to him — the more he liked him. 

In his conversation the other was always frank ; nor 
did he speculate as to whether it might not have been 
designedly so, in order to encourage frankness. In 
this respect Lawrence certainly did not require encour- 
agement. He said exactly what he thought — not be- 
cause it chanced, as it generally did, to coincide with 
the ideas of the other, but because, notwithstanding 
his years of slavery, it was natural to him to be free- 
spoken. It was this, no doubt, no less than the fact 
that what he said was almost always worth hearing, that 
made his talk attractive to his companion. It is only a 
few people that dare to be natural, and what seems para- 
doxical, but is nevertheless true, the most daring con- 
versationalists are often the least natural of all There 


AT HURLBY. 


223 


is an affectation of originality that is no more like it 
than prudery is like modesty. They talked of ‘‘fate, 
free will, foreknowledge absolute,” as though they had 
been contemporaries. Sir Charles’ views upon these 
subjects were very different from those of Mr. Percy; 
but carried even less conviction with them to his audi- 
tor. They were cynical rather than sceptical, and 
youth, when natural and wholesome, revolts against 
cynicism. On the other hand. Sir Charles made no 
attempt to make a proselyte of the lad, and, though 
satirical, was never contemptuous. 

Years afterward, this visit to Hurlby became even 
more than it now seemed — a thing apart in his life. It 
was still a splendid dream, but not without a certain 
touch of nightmare. Even while it held him in thrall, 
he felt that there was something unreal about it, and 
did not desire its long continuance. He longed to feel 
his feet, and fight his way, at all events out of Hills- 
land. The idea of returning thither was abhorrent to 
him. It would have been even more so if he could 
have looked over Sir Charles’ shoulder and read the 
note which, a few days after that gentleman reached 
home, he indicted to Mr. Robert Stratton. 

“ Dear Sir : — Upon consulting my secretary, I find that 
the balance at my banker’s will not permit of my obliging 
you in the manner you suggested ; nor do I feel inclined to 
change my investments for that purpose.” 

Whether the secretary was ever consulted in the mat- 
ter is doubtful, though there was a secretary — one Mr. 
Harbord, a very discreet person of middle age, who 
lived in much seclusion in his own apartments, and 
even when he came out of them appeared to be under 


224 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


a VOW of silence. He moved without noise, and dressed 
so “ quietly” that the term “my mute,” by which his 
employer spoke of him, might have had a more pro- 
fessional application. He was closeted for an hour or 
so with the baronet every morning, and emerged from 
those interviews with the face of a sphinx. 

“What do you think of my private secretary?” in- 
quired Sir Charles of Lorry, with one of his queer 
smiles. 

“Well, it is hard to say: he is such a z^^/jprivate sec- 
retary,” replied the young fellow — an answer that de- 
lighted his host immensely. 

Not even the praise of his epigrams, however 
(though it was dear to him), nor the being lapped in 
luxury, and the unwonted experiences of being made 
much of for his own sake, could close the young man’s 
eyes to the necessity for exertion. He longed to feel his 
feet on the step of the ladder that should lead, if not to 
fame or fortune, at least to independence of some kind. 
Under no circumstances, perhaps, as has been said, would 
he have returned to Hillsland; but a letter presently 
came to him from Ruth that convinced him that return 
was well-nigh impossible — that he had burnt his boats. 

“For some reason or another,” she wrote, “Uncle 
Robert is more set against you than ever.” He read 
this out to his host, who, after a burst of laughter, grew 
suddenly serious. 

“The fact is, my dear Lorry,” he said, “it is /who 
am the reason. You must not speak of it, because a 
certain silence should always be observed in such mat- 
ters: he has tried to borrow money of me — and failed.” 

“Borrow money of you? Impossible!” exclaimed 
Lawrence in astonishment. 


AT HURLBY. 


225 


“Oh, quite impossible,” assented the other dryly. 
“ But I am afraid I led him to believe that there was 
just an off chance of my becoming his creditor. Hence 
these latest execrations against his nephew. I got that 
fifty pounds for you by it — the sprat he threw out to 
catch a salmon. It was good interest for the money, 
however, considering that it was never lent. You may 
think it was not quite a nice business ” 

“ I think it was an excellent business,” put in Lorry 
delightedly. 

Sir Charles began pacing up and down the room, a 
common practice with him when not on good terms 
with himself. 

“ Yes, with a wild beast of that kind delicate scruples 
are out of the question. The sum was five thousand 
pounds, I may tell you — no less. When the crash comes 
with this relative of yours, as it is bound to do, this 
may be a good card to play with grandpapa. ‘Your 
son, who has told you such lies of me^ ’ you might say, 
‘has concealed one or two things about himself; that he 
lost five thousand pounds on the last Derby, for in- 
.stance. ’ ” 

This was great news to Lawrence, of course, but it 
in no way altered his determination to get to work'; 
indeed, it quickened it. With his knowledge of Uncle 
Robert, it was easy to guess that his ill -humor would 
not wait to vent itself upon him on his return, but 
would be felt by others. His poor mother, from whom 
he had also a letter, full of love and fears, would feel it. 

“I am deeply sensible of your kindness to me,” he 
said to his host, “ and of the seeming ingratitude that 
prevents my being perfectly happy under your hospita- 
ble roof; but I feel that I ought to be up and doing. 

15 


226 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


You were good enough to say, ‘Why not work here — 
where I have “ a golden pen and heaped-up flowers 
against which to lean’' — as well as in London?’ but I 
find I cannot do it.” 

If he had expected opposition, he had been mistaken, 

“This is Liberty Hall, my lad,” returned the baro- 
net, smiling. “ When I was your age, and a guest at a 
country house, none of its attractions equalled the sense 
that I could leave it without being pressed to stay. If 
you are half as much bored with Hurlby as I am ” 

“ But, indeed, that is not the cause,” put in Lawrence 
plaintively. 

“ I know it is not. You have what seems to you a 
much better reason, though a less one would have suf- 
ficed for me, and left no sting behind it. You shall go 
to-morrow, if you please. Well, that’s settled. Now 
I have something to say to you. It is partly through 
me that Hillsland has been made intolerable to you. 
It is I who have burned your boats for you by declining 
to be your uncle’s banker. So the least I can do in 
reparation is to become your banker. Let me lend 
you ” 

“Pray, pray, do not go on,” said Lawrence with 
flushed face. 

“Well, if it distresses you, I will say no more; but I 
must say you have less good sense than I had credited 
you with.” 

“ It is not that. Sir Charles, nor that your generosity 
fails to reach my very heart,” replied the young fellow, 
deeply moved. But a loan to any one in my position 
might be — very probably would be — a gift. I will take 
— as, indeed, I have taken — all other kindnesses from 
your hand, but not this one.” 


AT HURLBY. 


227 


Sir Charles regarded him with raised eyebrows and 
an amused smile. 

“Curious!" he soliloquized aloud, with an amused 
smile. “These delicate scruples, my dear Lorry, do 
honor to your heart, of course ; but upon my life they 
are no compliment to your head. However, I must 
needs respect them. Let us say no more about it. 
Only, if you do want money, don’t go for it where your 
uncle will probably go — to the Jews. Come to me." 

“I have, thanks to you, sixty pounds in hand," said 
Lawrence quietly. “ Even after paying for my modest 
outfit, I shall have plenty to live upon till I earn some- 
thing by my pen. " 

“ You would not have a shilling at the end of a week 
in London if you were left to your own devices, " re- 
turned the other confidently. “ That catastrophe, at 
least, I can guard against. I have written to Latham 
all about you, and he will not be surprised to see Dick 
Whittington (as he has facetiously termed you) at any 
moment. He has two maiden sisters, who will provide 
you with respectable lodgings in their own vicinity — 
Nelson Crescent, Bloomsbury — and look after your 
purse and your morals. It will not be a brilliant be- 
ginning of a literary career, but it will be a safe one, 
as I promised your mother it should be." 

This touched the young fellow profoundly. He knew 
how little such forethought and attention to details 
were in accordance with the other’s character, and he 
was filled with gratitude for the solicitude he had thus 
exhibited on his behalf 

On the morrow, therefore, Lawrence left for London, 
not unregretted by the household He had the art of 
attracting his fellow creatures to him The housemaids 


228 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


wept; the valet who had been put in charge of him 
pronounced him to be “ a good sort” of young gentle- 
man, though he could never understand what had be- 
come of his clothes. Even Mr. Harbord stretched his 
lips into a smile as he said “good-by.” 

Sir Charles saw him to the carriage door. 

“ I shall never forget your kindness,” said the lad in 
a broken voice. 

“You will, indeed,” returned the other gayly but con- 
fidently. “Think of me at my best and expect my 
worst. That is all that I ask of you, my dear Lorry.” 

It was a strange farewell, but not an uncharacteristic 
one, though the time had not yet arrived for the other 
to comprehend its full significance. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


NELSON CRESCENT. 

Nelson Crescent, Bloomsbury, is not a fashionable 
locality. Smart people who live in the little streets 
off Park Lane, and put their six feet of footman into a 
cupboard they call a servant’s bedroom, turn up their 
noses at the mention of such an address. But though 
not fashionable, the houses in Nelson Crescent are 
roomy; and the garden on which the front windows 
look is quite an extensive piece of ground, with real 
trees in it. It is said, of course, that nobody who is 
anybody would dream of living in Nelson Crescent; 
but that was not Mr. Leopold Latham’s view, who did 
live there, and thought a good deal of himself. He 
had a magazine of his own. The Areopagus, and also an 
income, which does not always follow in such cases. 
Indeed, it was whispered in Paternoster Row that if he 
had not owned the magazine his income would have 
been larger. 

His two sisters, Margaret and Mary, ladies respec- 
tively of fifty and forty years of age, lived with him and 
helped to diminish it — a misfortune he bore with much 
equanimity. They were not ornamental, though Miss 
Margaret thought Miss Mary to be so. There was a 
majestic grandeur about Miss Mary — who was five feet 
eleven in her — well, without her shoes — which she pro- 
nounced to be queenlike. Miss Margaret herself was 

229 


230 


A MODERN .DICK WHITTINGTON. 


even taller, but had not her sister’s grace of movement, 
and was also rather severely marked with the small-pox. 
Her brother Leopold had suffered from the same mal- 
ady; but in a man that matters nothing. He had a 
good deal of humor — of the sort called “ very dry” — 
and spoke of his countenance as being “ beautifully 
carved. ” He was less than medium height, and had 
that stoop of the shoulders which belongs to the student 
— and also to those who in their youth have “lived 
every day of their lives.” It was whispered that Mr. 
Latham had earned it both ways. He had distin- 
guished himself at the university, and it was at college 
that he had fallen in with Sir Charles Walden. They 
had then had many things in common, though now it 
would have been difficult to find two college contempo- 
raries more utterly different in pursuits and position. 
Mr. Latham understood the baronet thoroughly. He 
was the only link with his old life that remained; and 
with all his faults he had a sincere regard for the baro- 
net. Moreover, he was under obligations to him, 
which, though in a material sense they had been re- 
paid, his nature was too generous to forget. 

He received Lawrence with an old-fashioned hospi- 
tality that set him at once at ease. The young fellow 
had had no expectations of so kindly a welcome, nor of 
finding his new friend so handsomely housed. He 
knew nothing of fashion or of its effects on locality, 
and was surprised at the size of Mr. Latham’s resi- 
dence and at the air of comfort which surrounded him. 
When at the little Cornish station he had exchanged 
Sir Charles’ barouche for a third-class railway carriage, 
he had imagined he was bidding good-by for years — 
and very likely forever — to luxury of all kinds. After 


NELSON CRESCENT. 


231 


Hurlby Castle, almost every London house would have 
seemed “cabined, cribbed, confined;” but he had taken 
it for granted that a man like Mr. Latham, living by 
literature, would have a dwelling of modest dimensions. 
The back room on the ground-floor into which he was 
ushered by the neatest of maid-servants was by no 
means a mere study, but well deserved, both from its 
size and contents, the name of library. 

“And how is my friend Walden?” inquired his host, 
who, with all his geniality of manner, was regarding 
him with a certain curiosity; “or rather, I should say, 
‘our friend, ' for he seems to have a strong liking for 
you.” 

“ He has, at all events, treated me with the greatest 
kindness,” said Lawrence modestly. 

“That’s well; nor am I at all surprised at it,” added 
the other graciously. “ It is rather late for talking 
over matters just now — indeed, close on dinner-time.” 

“ I am sorry to have intruded upon you at such an 
hour; but Sir Charles led me to hope that you would 
be so good as to recommend me a lodging.” 

“Things must be new and strange enough to you 
without the addition, the first evening, of a London 
landlady. You must dine and sleep here to-night.” 

“Indeed, Mr. Latham,” hesitated the young fellow, 
“ I had not dreamed of inconveniencing you to that 
extent.” 

“ It is no inconvenience to me, and my sisters will 
like it. It will be a great pleasure to them. They do 
not have a young gentleman from the country to take 
care of every day. If you don’t mind being a little 
unwell, so as to want brown paper and vinegar, or a 
mustard poultice, it will be a great treat to my sister 


232 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


Margaret. In the mean time, I will show yon your 
room. The restrictions as to evening dress are, as the 
advertisements say, ‘suspended’ in this house. We 
can only give you five minutes, after which you will 
find us in the drawing-room.” 

These details were dwelt upon with some insistance, 
and Lawrence subsequently discovered they were im- 
portant in Mr. Latham’s eyes. After embracing sev- 
eral religions and pursuing various objects of study 
and pleasure with much Qagerness, he had become con- 
tent with the observance of punctuality at meals and 
the disregard of the custom of dressing for them. Sim- 
ilar rules of life await the termination of a good many 
enthusiasms. 

In the drawing-room Miss Latham received her guest 
with an almost maternal cordiality, introduced him to 
her sister as to some angelic being of whose acquaint- 
ance she was not without hope he might be worthy, and 
watched the effect with smiling impatience. 

Nor did it appear to be misplaced, for, won by so 
much unexpected kindness, Lawrence’s gratitude shone 
in every feature, and was set down at once to respect- 
ful admiration. He thought Miss Mary very nice and 
very tall. While he made himself agreeable to the 
ladies, Mr. Latham looked on amused, with his hands 
in his pockets. There was a curious likeness in his 
manner of taking things to that of Sir Charles: a cer- 
tain philosophical manner that is cousin-german to 
cynicism. 

At dinner-time Miss Margaret asked many questions 
about Hurlby Castle. Her brother had been a guest 
there, but had not sufficiently dwelt upon its magnifi- 
cence or its owner’s mode of life. In her heart of. 


NELSON CRESCENT. 


233 


hearts, though she had never seen him, she felt that the 
baronet was just the man for Mary; past the hey-day 
of youth, but not the less fitted on that account to ap- 
preciate the charms of maturity and a well-balanced 
mind. Though it seemed he had withdrawn from his 
position in the giddy world of fashion, was he really 
resolved never to come to town? Was it true that he 
had utterly abjured female society? The pleasure Mr. 
Latham exhibited while his young friend was thus 
under the harrow was really discreditable. If he did 
not know much about Sir Charles in his later days, he 
knew Lawrence knew still less, and his efforts to sat- 
isfy Miss Margaret’s curiosity tickled him excessively. 
When, however, she asked to what accomplishment the 
owner of Hurlby was most inclined, he took pity on the 
lad and replied for him, “Cigar-smoking.” At which 
Miss Margaret bridled up and closed her crOwSS-exami- 
nation. 

When the ladies had withdrawn, Mr. Latham, to 
Lawrence’s great delight, began to talk of business; 
that is to say, of Lawrence himself. 

“I can’t do very much for you, myself, ” he said. 
“ My periodical is not a channel of publication very 
well suited to your style of writing ; but you may give 
me the refusal of your contributions, and what is not 
good enough for The Areopagus — I mean, of course, not 
suitable for it,” he added hastily — I will endeavor to 
place elsewhere. You must understand, however, that 
everything will eventually depend upon yourself. Lit- 
erature is one of the few callings in which that is abso- 
lutely the case. I don’t say that it depends upon 
merit, because there are many examples to the con- 
trary ; but it owes nothing to favoritism after the first 


234 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


start. You will have a good ‘send-off,’ a strong push 
from the shore, after which you must trust to the wave 
and the wind — the popii laris auraP' 

“ I am fortunate, indeed, in having so kind a friend 
to help me,” said Lawrence warmly. 

“Yes, Walden is a very powerful ally.” 

“ I was thinking just then oi yoii^ sir.” 

“Of me? Oh, I merely assist the impulse that is 
given by the master-hand. That we shall be good 
friends I have no doubt, but in this matter I am but 
the echo of your friend. I have not known him inter- 
est himself in any one for years as he has done in your 
case. It is most important to one situated as you are 
to have a banker behind one — an ally with the sinews 
of war. ” 

“ But, indeed, sir, I am not proposing to be under 
pecuniary obligations to Sir Charles Walden,” said 
Lawrence earnestly. “ He was so good as to offer 
something of the kind, but I declined it.” 

Mr. Latham elevated his eyebrows and regarded his 
young friend with whimsical curiosity. “Really! And 
yet, as I understand, you contemplate increasing your 
responsibilities.” 

“ Not, of course, for the present,” returned the young 
fellow, deprecatingly. “ I look forward in time to be 
in a position to ask my mother to live with me.” 

“And there is a cousin, also, is there not?” 

“I have a cousin Ruth, to whom she is very much 
attached,” said Lawrence, with a flush. “If ” 

“I see,” said Mr. Latham, smiling. “You are of a 
sanguine nature, Mr. Merridew, and I am afraid that 
in cultivating literature you will find it a stiffish soil. 
However, what can be done shall be done. Your poems 


NELSON CRESCENT. 


235 


have great merit, but unhappily it is only a very few 
of our songsters that live by song. They get plenty 
of sugar, but very little seed, I have looked over what 
you sent me from Hurlby. Here he rose and pro- 
duced some MSS. from a drawer. The poems will 
all want revision, and some of them are sad stuff; but 
one or two of the things maybe made, I think, between 
us, marketable. No, no, you must thank Sir Charles, 
not me. You are much too young to run alone, my lad, 
and that’s the truth, though you are as clever as paint. 
There is a poem here called ‘Silence * that struck my 
fancy. 

“ ‘ Gone art thou. Beautiful, but whither gone? 

As ye are human men, answer give none. ’ 

' it begins. Don’t you think here is a little redundancy? 
Are not most men ‘human men? ' However, that’s a 
trifle. 

“ ‘ Never one drank those eyes but who grew faint; 

Never one touched those lips but suffered taint : 

Better far deaf were the doomed ears that hung 
On thy words- thou charmer with serpent tongue. * 

“You were speaking of a man, of course, and not a 
woman. So I thought. 

“ ‘ Godless thyself, thou mad’st us think of Him 

Who, dowered with grace and glory, face and limb, 

Bade the heart's lightness in that soul uprise 
And the fine brain make eloquent those eyes ; 

And mercifully ordained that wheresoe’er 
Prayerless thou wanderest thou invoked ’st the prayer 

• All have forgiven thee, fresh flowerets bloom, 

Plucked by some injured hand over thy tomb' — 

and so on. That is distinctly good : and all, I suppose, 


236 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

like the German professor’s camel, evoked out ot your 
own imagination — eh?” Mr. Latham, with a playful 
smile, waited for the reply. 

“Well, yes, I suppose so,” said Lawrence, smiling 
too. 

“ So I thought. Well, to-morrow we will go over all 
this together and winnow it a bit.” 

Upstairs they had a little music. Miss Mary sang 
some of Moore’s Irish ballads with a charming simplic- 
ity while Lawrence turned over the leaves; after which 
she retired earlier than the rest, like a tired child. 

“ Beautiful, is she not?” whispered Miss Margaret to 
Lawrence confidentially, while her brother read the 
Qiiarterly in his own chair. 

“Very much so,” he replied, scarcely knowing what 
she said from the -extreme unexpectedness of the in- 
quiry. He felt that he had fallen short of expectation. 

“Your cousin, I conclude,” she continued, “though I 
hear she too is very lovely, is of another style. ” 

“ Ruth is darker than your sister, ” he answered ; “ but 
there are many points of resemblance between them.” 
So there were: they both had eyes, nose, mouth, and a 
chin. 

“ That is very interesting, and will be a bond between 
you,” observed Miss Margaret. “It will make our 
house more like home to you. 

It did not seem worth while to put Miss Margaret 
right upon a matter on which she had apparently made 
up her mind. Her exceeding kindness made any sort 
of contradiction difficult to her guest; and after all, 
what did it matter? Nevertheless, he was rather taken 
aback when, after a long motherly talk concerning the 
lodging she had fixed for him and the arrangements 


NELSON CRESCENT. 


237 


for his comfort, Miss Margaret declared that it was an 
immense relief to her, as regarded his moral well- 
being, to learn from dear Leopold that he had “ a vir- 
tuous attachment.” 

Well he had — though it was only too likely in the 
case in question that virtue would be its own reward; 
and if Miss Margaret had made a mistake in the par- 
ticular object of it, there was no need to undeceive her. 
It might be a humiliating confession, but he did not 
attempt to conceal from himself that what was pressing 
upon him at present — and was likely to do so for years 
to come — was not the providing himself with a wife, 
but with the means of subsistence. Even the poet who 
sings of “ bread and cheese and kisses” puts the bread 
and cheese first, presumably because he thought them 
of the first importance. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


LETTERS FROM HOME. 

The next morning Miss Margaret introduced her 
young friend to the apartments she had selected for 
him. They were clean and neat and reasonable in 
price, and the landlady, an honest widow, who'm she 
had known for years, at once took a fancy to her new 
lodger. 

Lawrence did not know at the time what obligations 
he was under in this matter to Miss Margaret. The 
“long unlovely street*’ looked melancholy enough. 
Light and air and space, those blessings he had hitherto 
enjoyed without knowing it, seemed altogether want- 
ing. The spectacle of the poor slavey with her shoes 
down at heel and her expression of hopelessness and 
exhaustion, depressed him. It was a wet morning, and 
Bloomsbury in tears is not an exhilarating object. 
However, when his books were unpacked his little 
room would look more habitable, he reflected, and at 
all events there would be nothing to distract him from 
his literary labors. There were thousands of young 
men in town far worse provided for the struggle for 
existence than Lawrence Merridew, but most of them 
had regular work to occupy them. It was the enforced 
idleness, when he should have done all that he could do 
— for our writing powers are limited — in which lay his 
danger. This is one of the strongest objections — 

238 


LETTERS FROM HOME. 


239 


though it is kept out of sight — to a young man’s exer- 
cising a literary life; he has, of necessity, too much leis- 
ure, which generally means getting into mischief. 
From this Lawrence was preserved’ — not so much, I 
venture to think, by that ‘‘virtuous attachment’' of 
which Miss Margaret thought so highly, as by the hos- 
pitality of Nelson Crescent. 

“When you have nothing better to do, you can drop 
in here,’’ Mr. Latham had kindly said to him, and this 
proved a boon, indeed. Though the editor was so care- 
ful to impress upon him that his benefactions were ex- 
tended to him only at second-hand — that he was, as it 
were, but the almoner of Sir Charles — the fact was that 
Lawrence had made a very favorable impression on 
him. Though Mr. Latham smiled at Lawrence and his 
aspirations, he also smiled upon him. Like his friend 
Sir Charles, he particularly disliked trouble of any 
kind, yet he took a great deal of pains with the young 
fellow. Without it, indeed, his case would have been 
hopeless. He was too young a writer to be conscious 
of his own fault. Like all clever lads, he was often 
flippant where he had imagined he was witty, and 
though he never flattered himself he was sublime, was 
unaware that in his highest flights he generally only 
succeeded in making hitnself ridiculous. 

Even when Mr. Latham had done his best in pointing 
out these errors, they could have been sufficiently numer- 
ous to have insured the rejection of his contributions 
from much humbler periodicals than The Areopagus but 
for its editor’s personal recommendation. Though Mr, 
Latham had made no great mark in the world of letters 
himself, he was known to have a shrewd eye for literary 
ability of all kinds, and he recognized in Lawrence Mer- 


240 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON, 


ridew a young man of remarkable talent. The young fel- 
low's observation, in particular, was very keen, and his 
very ignorance of life in London presented to him those 
salient points of which the more experienced eye soon 
loses sight. He did some sketches of street scenes and 
people that found considerable favor; but they ap- 
peared in comparatively obscure periodicals, and were 
poorly remunerated. By comparison with what he re- 
ceived from them honoraria from The Areopagus^ for 
occasional articles which* Mr. Latham had nevertheless 
almost rewritten, were gigantic. With his simple 
tastes and his desire for economy, and especially from 
the absence of temptation to spend money in pleasure, 
from which the open door in Nelson Crescent relieved 
him, Lawrence had no difficulty, even from the first, 
in making “ both ends meet,” and even in having a 
njargin. 

On the fourth day of his arrival in town, he received 
two letters from Hillsland with that deep black edging 
which tells of “ the shadow feared of man. ” 

“ It is poor Aunt Jerry,” Lawrence said to himself ; and 
he was right. “ It must be a happy release to her. ” That 
the occurrence could have any effect upon his own in- 
terests never entered his mind ; and there he was wrong. 
The demise of the lady in question, though he himself 
took it so philosophically, affected his correspondents 
exceedingly. 

“Your poor Aunt Jerry has left us,” wrote his 
mother, “ for a better and a happier world. I grieve 
for her on my own account, though not, dear soul, on 
hers. I remember the time when we were young chil- 
dren together, and looked forward to quite another lot 
in this life than that which has befallen us. It is al- 


LETTERS FROM HOME. 


241 


most as difficult to read our future here as hereafter.” 
How different all this is, thought Lawrence, from what 
I should have expected of my dear mother! He could 
not understand the effect of an experience which had 
never occurred to himself. “ Her parting from dear 
Ruth was most touching. ‘I think I must needs meet 
you again, my darling,’ she said, ‘if it is only to say 
how much I owe you. ’ ” And this again struck Lawrence 
as very strange and very unlike Aunt Jerry. “There 
are only two left here to mourn her, as you know. She 
is to be buried on Thursday. You will think of us, 
and of her, on that day, I know, dear Lorry.” 

He said to himself that he would ti^ to think; but 
the matter really affected him very little. On the other 
hand he read on again and again the loving words in 
which his mother replied to the letter he had written 
her from town ; her congratulations upon the friends he 
had found in Nelson Crescent ; her simple hopes for his 
success in literature; her prayer for his well-being. 
“Be a good man, my dear,” she wrote, little knowing 
who had said those pathetic words before her; “it is 
the only thing to comfort you when you come to lie on 
your death-bed.” Last of all she wrote: “There is 
another trouble here which (save with Ruth and me) 
overshadows the present calamity ; Mrs. Robert is ill — 
really very ill, I fear — and your uncle is greatly dis- 
turbed about it.” Lawrence’s keen eye noticed that 
expressive term ‘disturbed’ where ‘distressed’ would 
have seemed so much more appropriate. It was, in- 
deed, impossible to conceive of Mr. Robert Stratton as 
distressed. “ Dear Ruth’s attentions to poor Aunt Jerry 
were rather grudged, I fear, at last, but of course her 
duty lay there first. Mrs. Robert has taken a great 
16 


242 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


fancy to have your cousin with her, so that you must 
not expect a long letter from her, but she tells me she 
is writing. Ruth never neglects any one to whom she 
can give any comfort. She feels her aunt’s death very 
much, I know, but hides her sorrow so as not to add to 
mine. You have described your position so graphi- 
cally that I have no difficulty in picturing it. You 
think yourself alone, but you are not so ; my thoughts 
and prayers are ever with you, my own boy.” 

The simplicity of his mother’s words touched the lad 
even more than their tenderness. Here was Nature, 
indeed — the core of life — compared with which its ex- 
ternals, with which alone as his conscience told him he 
concerned himself, were insignificant. “ What a selfish 
beast one feels,” he murmured penitently. 

Then he opened Ruth’s letter. 

“ My Dear Lorry: — Your mother will have told you of 
our loss. It is a sad blow to her, I fear, and has reduced 
her little world to very narrow limits. The state of Mrs. 
Robert’s health is also giving us no little anxiety.” 

Lawrence ran his eye mechanically down the letter, 
to see if there was really no other allusion to Aunt 
Jerry’s death, but there was none. The writer, he felt, 
understood him thoroughly. Ruth loved the dead 
woman, and was naturally disinclined to write of her 
to one who had no share in that affection; but her 
chief motive, he knew, was to tell him what would 
interest him and that only. This was evident in every 
line. 

“ You would be amused (but for the sadness of the 
occasion) to see what an important personage I have 


LETTERS FROM HOME. 


243 


become — as a sick nurse. Uncle Robert says he will 
give me a handsome certificate if I ever take up that 
line of business. It will be difficult for you to imagine 
this affability; but, indeed, he is much changed. We did 
him wrong, perhaps, in supposing him not to be genuinely 
attached to his Popsey, though sometimes I cannot help 
thinking that he has also some other cause of trouble. He 
looks haggard and much older than when you left. You 
must not, however, flatter yourself that he is pining for 
you. He has never mentioned your name, nor, what is 
more surprising, that of Sir Charles, with whom no doubt 
he concludes you are still residing. Grandpapa shuts him- 
self up closer than ever; Aunt Jane roams everywhere, 
save into one room. It is curious, though to do her justice 
she tendered her services, that Mrs. Robert does not at all 
encourage her visits. This seems to me a bad sign ; she 
must be really ill to manifest so much genuineness of sen- 
timent in opposition to so strong a will. Her husband, 
however, insists on her wishes being carried out in every 
particular. Aunt Jane is by no means pleased at the pref- 
erence thus unexpectedly shown me by the invalid, and the 
consideration it wins for me from Robert ; but, as you may 
imagine, I have not sought this greatness, and cannot help 
its being thrust upon me. I have not been in the village 
for many days, so have no news of any kind for you.” 

Lawrence’s eyes lingered over that passage. Was it 
possible that Ruth suspected he was solicitous about 
local news? Of course, he had not heard from Kitty, 
nor had he any expectation of doing so ; but he would 
have liked to have had word of her well-being. Mr. 
Richard Salesby had probably spent or lost all the 
money he had won at the races by this time, and Kate’s 
short-lived prosperity had come to an end. That cir- 
cumstance would not make her more tolerant of poverty 


244 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


in the abstract — more inclined to favor his suit. Yet 
where could she look for competence, much more to the 
wealth to which she aspired? Much as she might de- 
spise ‘‘water and a crust,’’ they were all that would be 
likely to be offered her; and it might be that when 
persuaded of this she might be driven to accept such 
bread and milk as he would be able to share with her. 
The idea of this “ starving out the garrison,” and in- 
ducing it to surrender to him as a prisoner, was indeed 
neither pleasant nor complimentary to himself; but as 
the image of lovely Kitty presented itself to his mind, 
he seemed to welcome it with rapture at any price. 
What a sunshine she would make in “ that shady place!” 
what a palace to his eyes would those dingy lodgings 
become if beautified by her presence 1 

“Uncle Robert, as I have said,” continued Ruth’s 
letter, “ has not opened his lips about you, but Aunt 
Jane has just expressed her apprehensions to me that 
any prolonged experience of the luxuries of Hurlby 
Castle is likely to be ‘deleterious to a young man who 
for many years will probably not have two sixpences to 
rub against one another. ’ The slight want of grace- 
fulness in the remark must be forgiven her in consid- 
eration of the affectionate solicitude which prompted it. 
No, Lorry, you must not come back here. I am thank- 
ful beyond expression for the little gleam of prosperity 
which, as you tell us, is shining upon you. That the 
clouds are breaking ever so little is a good sign. I kiss 
my hands to fortune who has so far been propitious to 
you. I bless with my whole heart the kind friends you 
have found in London. All these things seem to prom- 
ise a better future for you. You know how we miss 
you, but I am not so selfish as to wish you back at Hills- 


LETTERS FROM HOME. 


245 


land Hall. However spare may be your board, the 
fare must needs be better than the grudged bread of 
dependence. You may say, perhaps: ‘but that isjw^r 
bread, my cousin?’ Well, it is so; but it is not quite 
so black as yours was; and then, you are a man, Lorrie, 
which makes a difference. I admire you for refusing 
even Sir Charles’s help. No one should accept such aid 
save, always, from those he loves and of his own kin.” 

Much of this was characteristic enough of the writer. 
It was also characteristic, he felt, that from a heart full 
of sorrow and sadness she had thus spoken for his sake. 
He pitied Ruth’s position, but was very ready to agree 
with her, that to a woman a state of dependence was 
less intolerable than to a man. If he had knowm what 
she was suffering, and was about to suffer, he would 
have r^^garded the matter with less complacency. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


RUTH ANi:> KATE. 

Young gentlemen like Lawrence Merridew often 
come up to town as being the only place in which they 
can see “life.” But life is on view elsewhere and al- 
ways just as death is; and it was Ruth Stratton’s lot to 
have a much more remarkable experience of it than her 
cousin, notwithstanding that he was in search of that 
very thing, as all young writers are, for “copy.” We 
go to the play to see tragedy and melodrama, but when, 
as often happens, they come to us, their effect is much 
greater. Happy for us when w^e are spectators only, 
and are not included in the dramatis perso7ice, 

A few days after Aunt Jerry’s burial, Ruth took a 
walk by herself, which could with reason be called a con- 
stitutional. For weeks she had played the of nurse, 
having without an interval transferred her services from 
the deathbed of one relative to the sick-room of an- 
other. Mrs. Merridew had taken her place by the bed- 
side of Mrs. Robert; for that lady was still resolute in 
declining Miss Jane’s services, and for the present her 
will was law. Her husband upheld her every wish, 
and would have been pronounced, by an}^ one who was 
unacquainted with his character, a pattern of domestic 
life. He was most assiduous in his tendance of his wife, 
and anticipated her every wish. Under these circum- 
stances, it was not likely that he would spare other peo- 

246 


RUTH AND KATE. . 


247 


pie wliose services she required, and poor Ruth’s ener- 
gies — already weakened by her long attendance on 
Aunt Jerry — had been tried to the uttermost. A little 
air and exercise, and also the opportunity for reflection, 
she felt, were absolutely necessary to her further use- 
fulness. 

It was no wonder, therefore, that she sought that 
tonic prescription of Dr. Nature’s — the fresh air of the 
hill-top. That breezy moorland had been her favorite 
roaming-place of old. She had raced upon it with 
Lawrence when they were children. She had sat with 
him on the fragrant heather for hours, and listened to 
his scraps of poems and imaginative talk, in later 
years, when the lark sang high above them not more 
joyously. All that was over now, and for ever. She 
had lost him, and her inmost heart told her how much 
she had lost. He had inclosed a short letter to her in 
a longer one to his mother. That of itself was a fatal 
sign. A lover does not inclose his letters ; and though 
full of tenderness and affection, there had, to her sen- 
sitive eye, been something wanting in it. Aunt Jerry 
had been right; in his heart he preferred another. He 
had doubtless written to Kate Salesby in a very differ- 
ent fashion. “ And why should he not?” she inquired 
of herself, indignantly. “ He had not played her false ; 

he had never pretended to — to ” She dashed the 

tears from her cheeks as if they shamed them. If love 
was denied her, duty was still left. 

To those who do right and their best, there is, it is 
said, always content. What copy-book consolation! 
For what content had poor Mrs. Merridew found in her 
blameless life. The prosperous, so far as her expe- 
rience went, were the hard and cruel. These thoughts 


248 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

of a soul in conflict followed and fought one another 
within her, as wave follows and fights with wave. She 
gave them rein, feeling that somehow the end would be 
peace; but in the mean time it seemed to her that her 
fate was hard — that scarcely in all the world could a 
girl be found in sadder case than she. Instead of de- 
riving strength from the wholesome air, or pleasure 
from the lovely scene beneath her, the associations of 
the place filled her with sorrow and regret. The pine 
wood, with its solemn dirges and hearse-like plumes, 
seemed more consonant with her feelings than the 
breezy and sunlit moor, and to the pine wood she made 
her way. As she neared it a sound fell upon her ears 
which, though melancholy and woeful enough, was not 
the solemn sough of the trees, but the wail of human 
misery. Some little child, perhaps, had strayed too far 
from her home and been lost in the dark wood. All 
thoughts of her own troubles vanished from Ruth’s 
heart at this evidence of another’s woe. She pushed 
on, at first almost in darkness, so strong was the con- 
trast between the sunlight she had left and the shade 
of the trees; and it was not without some shock to her 
nerves that, from a sandy hollow close at hand there 
suddenly bounded up, like a stag disturbed in its cov- 
ert, Kate Salesby. Her sobs had ceased, and she was 
regarding the intruder with flashing eyes ; but the large 
tears were still standing on her cheeks, and her face 
had that haggard look which comes only after years of 
ill -requited toil or one hour of human misery. Each 
had taken the other by surprise, but while Ruth was 
unable for a moment or two to identify her neighbor, 
Kate recognized her at once. 

^‘Who told you I was here?” she inquired passion- 


RUTH AND KATE. 


249 


ately. “What right have you — you of all the women 

in the world — ^to dog my footsteps? Is it not enough ” 

Here she paused, recalled to herself less by reflection 
than by the other’s distressful looks, and, with her hand 
upon her heaving breast, awaited Ruth’s reply. 

“ Indeed, Kate, I had no intention of intruding upon 
you,” she answered sweetly; “though if I had known 
you were in trouble I should have offered, as I do now, 
what help I could. I am not so happy myself that I 
can afford to despise the sympathy of others, or as I 
would rather say, if you will let me, of a friend.” 

“ You not happy! Why should you not be happy?” 
returned Kate scornfully. “ To be sure, you have lost 
a relative” — pointing to her mourning dress — ^“but 
what is Death? It cannot be so vile and sordid, or else 
vso shameful, as I^ife itself. If I had not been a cow- 
ard, I should myself have been dead by now.” 

She spoke with a vehemence of passion that fell little 
short of the anguish of despair. “ What a hypocrite 
you are, and how ignorant of what life is, to speak of 
your unhappiness in the same breath with mine. Look 
at me and then at yourself.” 

It was characteristic that the speaker should have 
made personal appearance the test of such a matter; 
but, indeed, there were materials for contrast in it. 
Although perfectly simple, Ruth’s mourning attire was 
neat to faultlessness ; her face, though pale and worn, 
was calm and composed in its expression, and showed 
no evidences of violent grief. Kate, on the other 
hand, might have stood for “ Niobe, all tears” save for 
the resentment which, in spite of them, glared in her 
eyes. Her dress was disordered where she had plucked 
at it in some access of passion, and covered with sand, 


250 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


though none of this interfered with her beauty, which 
indeed was heightened rather than otherwise by her 
intense excitement. 

‘‘ It is a poor comfort to decide, Kate, as to which of 
us is the more miserable, ” said Ruth gently. “ But I 
do assure you, if you think me happy and prosperous, 
or without the most serious anxieties both for the pres- 
ent and the future, you are mistaken. I have lost — 
well, no matter what I have lost, but just now it seems 
almost everything worth having. Your own case can 
scarcely be harder than that; and yet I pity you from 

the bottom of my heart, and if I can comfort you ” 

she put out her hand to place it on the girl’s shoulder 
caressingly ; but the other drew back. 

“ Don’t touch me!” she said, in quick, hoarse tones, 
“ or you will repent it. I am not fit tq touch.” 

For the moment Ruth thought the speaker referred 
to her soiled garments, but her face revealed a deeper 
meaning. It expressed shame, dogged and resentful, 
but still shame, as well as wretchedness and rage. 

‘‘ There is no woman who should say that to another,” 
said Ruth gravely. “^If you think that such an one as 
I, at all events, fear to touch you, however ill you may 
think of yourself, you are mistaken,” and with a sudden 
impulse she stepped forward, and before the other 
could prevent it, kissed her on the cheek. 

“You would not have done that if you had known,” 
cried the other; “but you have a good heart!” 

“And so I believe, have you, Kate.” 

“No; there is nothing good about me. There was 
at one time, perhaps; but that is over. All is over. 
Let us talk of something else. Do you ever write to 
Lawrence. I need not have asked; I read it in your 


RUTH AND KATE. 


251 


face ; you blush ; but yours is not the blush of shame. 
You do well to love him, for he is worthy of your 
love. " 

‘‘Indeed, Kate, you are mistaken," stammered Ruth. 
“ He is my cousin, you know, and we have been brought 
up together " 

“Just so. It could not, therefore, have been other- 
wise. When you write to him, wish him good-by for 
me. There is nothing between us, as he knows, for I 
have told him so — nothing at all. But there is a reason 
why I cannot say farewell to him ; yes, indeed, there is 
a reason. He will never speak of me, and I trust he 
will never think of me again. I am dead to him, as I 
shall be dead to you, after to-day." 

“ Dead, Kate? What do you mean?" 

“ Do not ask. You will know to-morrow. Every- 
body will know then. I am not going to kill myself, 
as you imagine; I have not the courage. I am a cow- 
ard, as well as everything else that one should be 
ashamed to be. Yet, I am grateful to you, Ruth Strat- 
ton, for your kind words and your sweet looks. I am 
glad to think — yes, I am trying to be glad to think — 
that they will comfort him and make him happy. I 
could have done it myself, perhaps, if he had been rich 
and prosperous; though I am not sure even of that. 
He took interest in so many things of which I under- 
stand nothing. I was beneath him in so many ways. 
But to lighten his burdens, to share his poverty — that 
would have been impossible for me to do I have seen 
too much of poverty. I want wealth — carriages, horses, 
dresses ; never to have to think of what they cost. That 
is what makes one happy. You may say that you did 
not find me so just now, but there are some things — 


252 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

even poor things — that one regrets to part with, just at 
first. To-morrow I shall be in Paradise.” 

‘‘ I have not the least idea, Kate, what you are talk- 
ing about.” 

“I suppose not,” she answered scornfully. “You 
are such a highly respectable family at the Hall ; your 
stony-hearted old grandfather, and that hypocritical 

tyrant your uncle ” Then, with a sudden, passionate 

wail — “ Oh, forgive me, forgive me; I don’t know what 
I am saying.” 

“I am sure you do not, dear Kate,” answered Ruth 
earnestly. “ I trust, also, you are not really thinking 
of taking any desperate step — I know not what, but one 
you will repent of — either to-morrow or any day; but 
if so, confide in me, and though my advice may be val- 
ueless, it is something, you will find, to have a sympa- 
thizer. ” 

“ A sympathizer ! You!” exclaimed the other, with 
a ghastly smile. “ No, Ruth. All 1 ask of you — and I 
never thought to ask as much — is, when hearing of 
what I am, to remember what I was, and — not in pity 
(I want no one’s pity) — in charity to judge me. Fare- 
well.” 

She was ten yards away before Ruth could put out 
her hand. She ran at full speed through the fringe of 
wood and then like a bird along the moor without cast- 
ing one look behind her. To have pursued her would 
have been useless, for no girl in Hillsland had so fleet 
a foot. 

What project Kate had in her head Ruth could not 
guess ; but she was convinced that she was on the brink 
of some desperate act which would have far-reaching 
consequences. Nothing, however, Ruth could say or 


RUTH AND KATE. 


253 


do could hinder it. It struck her, indeed, that she 
ought to put Mr. Salesby on his guard, but his influ- 
ence over his daughter was very small. Moreover, for 
that day at least, interference was out of the question, 
for the hour was past up to which she could reasonably 
expect to find that gentleman sober. He was “ muzzy” 
in the morning; he was “ elevated ” in the afternoon; 
but at six o’clock — punctually — he was drunk. 

Under no circumstances would Ruth have refused 
her assistance to one in such evidently unhappy case 
as Kate Salesby ; but it might have been impossible to 
give her sympathy. With no willing heart could she 
have helpecf on any engagement between Kate and her 
cousin ; but it was now clear that no such engagement 
existed. This was news which could not be otherwise 
than welcome to her. A wife less suited to Lawrence 
than Kate could hardly be imagined ; indeed, she 
seemed herself to be conscious of her unfitness for that 
position. It had been a danger of the most serious 
kind, and one which had threatened the future more 
than all other opposing causes; and it was now re- 
moved. However toilsome might be his path, his steps 
would not be hampered by a life-long companion who 
had no sympathy with his efforts and resented the pov- 
erty with which it was only too likely they would be 
attended. This was, indeed, a source of satisfaction. 
It was not, of course, flattering to Ruth’s self-love that 
Kate had given up Lawrence, as it were, in her favor ; 
in fact, the one thing that she could not forgive her 
was the imputation, which she was conscious of having 
combated but feebly, that she was in love with Law- 
rence herself. But in Kate’s state of excitement and 
despair, it was likely enough she should have exagger- 


254 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


ated everything, including her own relations with Law- 
rence; and from this idea it is not too much to say that 
Ruth derived the greatest satisfaction of all. In spite 
of the genuine pity she felt for the girl, the information 
that had been imparted to her made Ruth a happier 
woman; and though she would have befriended her in 
,any case, the task seemed much more easy, since in 
doing so she would not be furthering any matrimonial 
scheme which had Lawrence Merridew for its object. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


WHAT RUTH OVERHEARD. 

Every student of humanity, who is an honest fellow, 
confesses (to himself) that he sometimes makes mis- 
takes. It is no wonder, therefore, that those who are 
not students are still more often mistaken in their su- 
perficial diagnosis of their fellow-creatures. Ruth had 
always taken what would have been called a charitable 
view of Mrs. Robert Stratton’s character. That she 
was something of a hypochondriac was too obvious to 
be denied by anybody. She was given to magnify her 
ailments, and to arrogate to herself considerable priv- 
ileges on the strength of them. But Ruth had never 
assented to the general verdict that she was selfish, 
affected, and spoiled. But in these days the girl felt no 
little remorse in having judged “the professional inva- 
lid ” (as Lawrence used to call her) with even a moder- 
ate severity. In real sickness, such as she was without 
doubt suffering from, she was a model of patience. 
The only symptoms of her former character she had 
retained were those “likes and dislikes” in which she 
had always indulged herself ; and even these were now 
limited to a very decided objection to Miss Jane. Con- 
sidering their former familiarity, this was curious — 
unless, indeed, it was a proof of the grave character of 
her disorder, since when we are very ill our instincts, 
warning us that we have now no time to spare in being 

255 


256 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


deceived, seldom fail to draw 11s to the good and turn 
us from the worthless. 

This theory, however, would to some minds have 
broken down in face of the fact that Mrs. Robert still 
clung to her husband. She had done so, however, 
when she had been well — or by comparison well — and 
no one could question his devotion under the present 
circumstances. As Ruth had written to Lawrence, Mr. 
Robert was a changed man, jDut in nothing so much as 
in the way that he discharged the duties of a sick nurse. 
He had always petted his “ Popsey,” but that had cost 
him little trouble; he was now her slave. The doctor, 
who though living some miles away, was in daily at- 
tendance, recommended “constant support,'* but the 
poor lady had no appetite and “ turned against” the 
most excellent dainties. The only food she seemed to 
relish was what she had been used to as a child in Scot- 
land, from whence she came — oatmeal porridge — and 
this only when prepared by her husband’s hands. We 
know what Ruth thought of her uncle; yet it now 
touched her to mark the care with which he ministered 
to the sick woman’s wants, the cheerful wisdom with 
which he combated the apprehensions she expressed 
about herself. There was an anxiety not only in his 
voice, but in his eye (which, as a channel of hypocrisy, 
is much less under our control) that could hardly be 
spurious; and whenever he parted from her — which 
was seldom, and only to take the air for health’s sake 
— the promise that his absence would be short was 
given with the same tenderness with which it was re- 
ceived. Ruth had read of persons who, cold and even 
cruel to the rest of their fellow-creatures, manifest 
great affection to their immediate belongings. In her 


WHAT RUTH OVERHEARD. 


257 


uncle’s case this was as limited as the love of a lioness 
for her cubs, but it certainly seemed to exist. He was 
really what his “ Popsey” called him, “ the best of hus- 
bands. ” 

Ruth was thrown much more into his society, of 
course, than she had ever been before, and he puzzled 
her. It was not possible for her to forget what manner 
of man he really was, and the presentation of this smooth 
side of his character — the existence of which she had 
never suspected — to her observation awoke a certain 
interest in her. There were long days, passed in the 
sleep of exhaustion by the patient, in which Ruth had 
little else to do than to take note of Uncle Robert. 
They were Popsey ’s only nurses, for such was her wish, 
and it was law. 

“ Whom do I need but you, dear Ruth, and dearest 
Robert?” she would say pitifully. “ Could any one 
make my porridge for me, like him?” 

He certainly took a great deal of pains with it, mak- 
ing it soft and palatable, with Cornish cream, whieh 
the doctor had recommended. If it was not very sup- 
porting, it was better than nothing, which unhappily 
was the alternative ; but it seemed to do her no good. 
Some days she was little better than others, but on the 
whole she was gradually wasting away. Atrophy the 
country doctor called it, and very pleased he seemed to 
be to have found the right name for it. But what weak- 
ened her most of all was sickness. Even that native 
porridge created nausea. But, as has been said, there 
were intervals. 

Curiously enough, when Mr. Robert was summoned 
away for two days from Hillsland, on business of his 
father’s — and not a pleasant business — in connection 

17 


258 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

with a certain niining company in which the old gentle- 
man had got entangled, his “ Popsey” rallied a little, 
and took her porridge with some approach to appetite; 
but after his return she grew more rapidly and dis- 
tinctly worse. To Ruth it seemed a very mysterious 
ailment, and more than once she besought her uncle to 
call in another opinion. But he shook his head : “ Pop- 
sey is opposed to it,’' he said; which was final. He 
could not or would not recognize her danger. 

One lovely August evening, when the invalid had 
had an unusually bad day, Ruth left her asleep in 
charge of Mrs. Merridew, and stole out into the garden 
for a little fresh air. It was no longer possible for her 
to leave her charge for even so long as would have per- 
mitted a walk into the village; the sick woman would 
be sure to inquire for her when she woke up, and to 
fret if she could not be summoned. Since her walk 
upon the moorland, Ruth had twice called at “ The Cor- 
ner,” but on both occasions Kate had been too unwell 
to sec her. She did not believe she was physically ill, 
but only indisposed for an interview. It was, indeed, 
quite probable that she regretted the impulse that had 
caused her to be so frank at their last meeting, and was 
even ashamed of the emotion she had exhibited. It 
was, at all events, satisfactory that the catastrophe at 
which she had hinted as being imminent had not taken 
place. Whatever rash step Kitty may have contem- 
plated was apparently postponed, or it might be hoped, 
abandoned. 

Ruth’s anxiety upon Mrs. Robert’s account had by no 
means caused her to lose sight of the difficulties, or 
even dangers, in which this girl was placed ; but it pre- 
vented her mind from dwelling upon them as it would 


WHAT RUTH OVERHEARD. 


259 


otherwise have done. What with her invalid evidently 
r)n the road that led away from amendment, and Kitty 
.;i her grievous but unknown trouble, and Aunt Jerry 
in the churchyard, and Lorry absent and alone in Lon- 
don, Ruth had only too many things — and all of a de- 
pressing nature — to think about. Being a sensible girl, 
and feeling how necessary it was for the patient’s sake 
not to “ give way, ” she had taken a book with her in her 
evening walk. 

It was the first she happened to lay her hand on in 
her little bookshelf. If she had given herself time for 
choice, it would hardly have been “ Uncle Silas” — a work 
of genius indeed, if ever there was one, but certainly 
not a story fitted to raise the spirits or to prevent the 
imagination dwelling upon gloomy themes. Having 
once opened it, however, at random, the charm of the 
novel, notwithstanding that she was well acquainted 
with it, laid hold of her, and filled her with its “ fearful 
joy.” It was the chapter where Uncle Silas’s unhappy 
niece discovers that the wicked French governess 
whom, as a child, she has had such cause to hate and 
fear, is under the same roof with her. 

Philosophy may be studied as we walk, but the drama 
— and especially the melodrama — of life demands a cer- 
tain amount of repose for its enjoyment; we must take 
a seat to witness it. Ruth stepped into the same pine- 
clad arbor in which Sir Charles and Lawrence had 
found Miss Jane immersed in theology, and the next 
minute was in another world. It is curious, indeed, 
how often the constant but judicious novel reader abol- 
ishes time and space in this way, and is transported, as 
on an enchanted carpet, among scenes and persons he 
will otherwise never know, but which, while the glamour 


26 o 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


lasts, are as familiar to him as those of his everyday life, 
from which he is thus far more separated than in the 
land of dreams. For in dreams our friends and rela- 
tives appear to us, though under grotesque circum- 
stances. In dreams, too, it may be noticed, by the way, 
that the personages of fiction never appear, not even 
to him who creates them. 

Intent on her novel, Ruth suddenly hears Uncle Silas 
talking with his more dissipated but less cold-blooded 
son, and what he says is quite unlooked-for. 

“ I tell you that the guarantee is all right, and how 
I have obtained it is no business of yours.” 

“ But when the six months come to an end, Stratton, 
how will you settle with the Jew?” 

Then she knows that it is not Uncle Silas and his 
son she is listening to, but Uncle Robert and his friend 
and boon companion, the Reverend Arthur Grueby. 
The horror of the fact is somehow worse than the hor- 
ror of the fiction. Ruth is paralyzed with terror — not 
so much at her situation, which is that of an involun- 
tary eavesdropper, nor even at what she overhears, 
but at the tone of the speakers. It is confidential of 
course, but there is also a certain reticence in it, as 
though both men had much more in their minds than 
they contrived to express. How she comes to hear 
them is simple enough, though not to her. Her mind is 
far too disturbed and affrighted to suggest to her that 
they are merely standing under the shelter of the arbor 
out of the wind, because one has let his cigar go out 
and is relighting it with a wax vesta. Finding them- 
selves so comfortable, they stop for a minute, as 
smokers often do, before resuming their walk. What 
Ruth is saying to herself is that they will come to sit 


WHAT RUTH OVERHEARD. 


261 


down in the arbor, and find her there spying upon 
them. Why she should have spying imputed to her 
she does not know, but that it will be so she is well 
convinced ; indeed, since they continue their conversa- 
tion, and she continues to listen to it — for she is speech- 
bound — they have a reasonable cause of complaint. 

Five thousand pounds, with the interest, is a big 
sum?’' continues the vicar interrogatively. 

“ Unfortunately, it will be only too easy to pay it, or 
five times as much, long before the time you mention.” 

“ Good heavens! Is your poor lady so ill as that?” 

“I fear so; that, at least, is the doctor’s opinion. I 
have been hoping against hope; but I can do so no 
longer.” 

“Tut, tut; what a sad business! Still, it is the com- 
mon fate.” 

There was an uncomfortable silence; then, “ I don’t 
think these cigars are so good as the last you got me, 
Grueby. 

“They are the same brand;” and with that the 
speakers moved away. 

Freed from one terror, Ruth was now overwhelmed 
by another. She felt sick and shocked. Only that very 
day had the doctor informed her that though Mrs. Rob- 
ert was ill, there was no reason to apprehend a fatal 
issue. If the constant sickness should be cured, or even 
intermitted, strength would return to her. Uncle Rob- 
ert had not many hours ago expressed to her the most 
sanguine views of their patient. So far from “ hoping 
against hope,” he had never hinted at any serious dan- 
ger from first to last. Yet all along, or certainly for 
some time, it now appeared that he had foreseen that 
she would die ; and he could speak of that catastrophe 


262 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


in the same breath with a criticism on a cigar. More- 
over, and worse than all, his wife’s death, it seemed, 
would release him from some grave pecuniary trouble. 

These things, not in logical sequence, or one after 
another, but in one appalling aggregate, presented 
themselves in a moment to Ruth Stratton’s mind. The 
little edifice of good opinion which had been in course 
of erection within her during these latter days respect- 
ing her uncle fell to pieces like a house of cards. He 
was proved at once to be heartless and hypocritical. 
He might well, indeed, be so devoted to his “ Popsey,” 
since he knew that the inconvenience of so being would 
last for so short a time, and that he would be so well 
rewarded for his trouble. That- he should have that 
contingency in his thoughts filled Ruth with a shadowy 
but possible fear which she felt it her duty to expel. 
We must be just and charitable even with the lowest 
of our fellow-creatures. The ties of blood, the law of 
nature, protested against the dark suspicion that had 
found entrance into her soul. Yet there it was ; the dew 
on her brow, the trembling in her limbs, the sickness 
at her heart, announced its presence. When she strove 
to analyze the reasons for its shameful presence, she 
came to the conclusion that it was mainly caused by 
the condition of mind in which it found her. She had 
been deep in “ Un'cle Silas, ’’and his crime had trans- 
posed itself to her living uncle. Such things only 
occurred in fiction. Indeed, Uncle Silas himself 
had shrunk from lifting his own hand against 
his helpless guest and kinswoman; whereas, in 
this case — though the temptation, alas, was the same, 
and the hypocrisy, and the coldness of heart: “these 
cigars are not so good as those you got me last ” — the 


WHAT RUTH OVERHEARD. 


263 


victim was the man’s own wife, the woman he had 
sworn to cherish in sickness and in health. No, she 
would cast out the shocking thought, and pray to 
Heaven that her beating heart might never again en- 
tertain such a visitant. What were poverty and isola- 
tion and dependence compared with the misery of such 
a suspicion as this? So groundless, too — the monstrous 
offspring of a prejudice. She would have had reason 
indeed, to be ashamed of herself, to ask pardon of high 
Heaven for having imputed such a crime in the case 
of any fellow-creature ; but of so near a kinsman, it was 
worse — detestable. Thus she reasoned with herself, 
with contemptuous indignation at her own imaginings; 
and not in vain. Charity and common-sense presently 
overcame them. It was time that she should return to 
her patient, and in the performance of her duties to 
forget these morbid fancies. On the threshold of the 
sick-chamber she met Uncle Robert, with a cup in his 
hand; he looked anxious and troubled. ‘‘ It is so unfor- 
tunate,” he said, “that dearest Popsey has taken a dis- 
taste for porridge: she used to be so fond of it, and 
Shepstone [the doctor] so strongly recommends it. I 
do hope, Ruth, you will try to reason with her. See, 
she has not drunk half of it. ” 

“ I will do my best to persuade her to take it,” said 
Ruth, and she held out her hand for the cup. 

Uncle Robert hesitated. “ It does not signify for to- 
night,” he said; “ I was speaking of the matter gener- 
ally. ” 

“Still, if it is good for her, why should she miss a 
meal ?” said Ruth, taking the cup from his hand. 
“There is nothing wrong with the porridge, I sup- 
pose.” 


264 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

‘‘Wrong?” he replied angrily. “ Well, of course not. 
I have made it myself with cream and sugar, as usual.” 

“She must have it while it’s hot,” returned Ruth 
quietly, and entered the room, closing the door behind 
her. 

Another minute in her uncle’s company was more 
than she could just then have borne. She had, indeed, 
been perfectly cajm in her manner. It was his hand, 
and not hers, that had trembled as she took the cup 
from him ; but the strain upon her nerves had been 
almost beyond endurance. 

There was an ante-room, separated from the sick- 
room by a portiere, and here she remained for a few 
seconds to recover herself. When she made her appear- 
ance by the bedside of the invalid she no longer held 
the cup in her hand. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


BY THE SICK-BED. 

As Ruth approached the bed, Mrs. Merridew with- 
drew to make room for her, and, pointing to the patient, 
who was apparently asleep, said softly, ‘‘ She is not so 
well to-night, I am sorry to say. '' 

“ I am dying,” mhrmured Mrs. Robert faintly. 

“Nay, I trust not that,” answered Ruth, bending 
over her. 

“ Why should you wish me to live?” was the queru- 
lous reply. “ I turn against everything, even against 
life itself.” 

It was characteristic enough that disinclination for 
her food should loom so largely in the sick woman’s 
mind. An hour ago Ruth would have thought little of 
it, but it had now a far greater significance for her. 

“ You could not take the porridge, my dear?” she 
said, as though she was addressing a child, for that was 
the manner that suited “ Popsey” best. “ Perhaps it 
was badly made. ” 

“ Oh, no ; dear Robert made it himself, and, of course, 
beautifully. But even that now makes me ill. I have 
been so sick.” 

Ruth herself felt sick, though from quite another 
cause. She would have given much to have been free 
to go to her own room and have a “ good cry” before 

265 


266 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


sitting down to think what was to be done ; but for the 
present it behoved her, above all things, to be mistress 
of herself. She had a presentiment that ere she reached 
that sanctuary she would need all her strength for yet 
another ordeal, nor was she mistaken. While “ Popsey” 
was still detailing her symptoms, which apparently had 
been of the same kind as usual, though somewhat more 
serious. Uncle Robert entered the room. 

“Come, come, that’s well,” he said gently. “I see 
you have been persuaded by Ruth to take your por- 
ridge, though you would not listen to me.” 

“She has not taken it,” interposed Ruth quietly. 
“ She thinks it was that which made her ill.” 

“But it’s gone!” exclaimed Uncle Robert, in a tone 
in which, to her ear, astonishment seemed not unmixed 
with alarm. “The cup is in the ante-room, empty. 
Where is the porridge?” 

“ I threw it away,” said Ruth indifferently. “ It was 
hopeless to induce her to take it. Dr. Shepstone must 
recommend her something else.” 

“The doctor knows better than you do,” he an- 
swered harshly. “We must consider the health of 
our dear patient, and not her fancies.” 

He took no pains to lower his voice, though he was 
standing close to the bed. It was the first time he had 
shown himself in opposition to his wife, and she re- 
sented it by silence. Her head was turned away from 
him, and she had closed her eyes. “ I was in hopes to 
find you better, my darling,” he returned softly. “I 
had just been telling Grueby before I came in to give 
you your porridge that I thought you had turned the 
corner. I felt so much more cheerful about you, that 
I joined him in having a swim in the lake — the first I 


BY THE SICK-BED. 267 

have had since yon were ill. It is late, and the water 
was cold.’’ 

How this man lies!” was Ruth’s reflection. Why 
did he talk like this? Was he speaking at random, be- 
cause his mind was occupied by quite another matter, 
that might well monopolize it? At all events, he spoke 
in vain. His Popsey” answered nothing. I think 
our dear one is asleep,” he murmured; that is more 
likely to do her good than anything. Be sure you call 
me,” he added, turning to the two ladies, “when she 
wakes. ” 

He turned away; but, as Ruth thought, he delayed 
in the ante-room. She could hardly breathe for terror. 
It paralyzed her even worse than it had done in the 
summer-house ; her blood seemed to leave her heart and 
rush to her head. If he had returned, she felt that she 
must shriek out “ Murderer. ” But in a moment or two, 
which seemed hours, the outer door closed. 

He was gone. 

“ Be so good as to stay with Rosa for five minutes 
longer. Aunt Fanny,” said Ruth. “I have forgotten 
to take off my outdoor shoes.” 

Fortunately she had forgotten to do so ; for to invent 
an excuse for leaving the patient would have been im- 
possible. Her mind was too full of terrible thoughts — 
too occupied with the immediate purpose she had in 
view — for any effort of imagination. In the ante-room 
upon the table stood the empty cup. Was it fancy that 
caused her to conclude from its appearance that it had 
been wiped round as with a handkerchief, so that no 
vestige of the porridge remained in it? At all events, 
it now struck her for the first time that what remained 
of the patient’s meal had always been thus cleared 


268 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


away unless her uncle took the cup away with him. 
On a chair lay Ruth’s hand-bag, in which she was ac- 
customed to keep such work as she could employ her- 
self upon while watching by the sick-bed. There was 
something in the bag now beside the work. 

When she reached her room, and had locked the door, 
she took it out. It was an empty marmalade pot that 
had been in the room, into which she had poured the 
remains of the porridge from the cup; and this she 
proceeded to carefully tie down with paper, as a house- 
keeper ties her jam. When this was done, she placed 
the jar in a drawer and locked it, and then threw her- 
self into a chair with a deep sigh. If she had expected 
tears to come to her relief she was mistaken; nor, in- 
deed, did she seem to need them. 

There was no time for lamentation now; she must 
think, and when she had taken thought, must act upon 
it. If she was doing her uncle a wrong in suspecting 
him of this most heinous crime, it was a grievous 
wrong; but that had been already committed. She did 
suspect him. And what were scruples on that account 
compared with the necessity of preventing the accom- 
plishment of his crime, if her suspicion was well- 
founded. What had unconsciously hardened her heart 
against him and given her the courage to do what she 
had done was his request that she should persuade his 
wife to take the porridge. He had not hesitated — 
supposing he was the wretch she believed him to be — 
to make her his instrument and confederate, and had 
placed in her own hands the cup, the contents of which 
were intended to shorten his wife’s days. There was 
not an hour to be lost in putting a vStop to this most 
treacherous and unnatural design ; but if there had been 


BY THE SICK-BED. 


269 


time to spare she would not have spared hwi. But how 
should the proof be brought about? The doctor would, 
of course, have been the proper person in whom to con- 
fide her suspicions; but she had little confidence in the 
doctor. He would probably pronounce her suspicions 
incredible. He had a great respect for the county fam- 
ilies, among whom he reckoned the tenants of the Hall, 
because he attended them, and Uncle Robert had gone 
out of his way to conciliate him. In his incredulity 
and weakness he might even reveal her accusation to 
her uncle himself. And to whom could she make it 
except to the doctor? Certainly not to Mr. Grueby, 
who, though he might be shocked and horrified at it, 
would, even if he believed it, decline to prosecute his 
friend. His advice would be to hush it up, which 
would probably only cause her uncle to put off the exe- 
cution of his design to a more convenient season. For 
an instant Ruth even thought of Sir Charles; but, apart 
from the extreme disagreeableness of consulting him on 
such a matter, he was the last man to trouble himself 
with investigations. 

Mrs. Robert had relations alive — a brother and a mar- 
ried sister. They ought, of course, to have been writ- 
ten to long ago; but her uncle had forbidden it. It 
would make dear “ Popsey” nervous about herself. 
How could Ruth write to them when he had declined 
to do so? And what help could they be, at present, 
even if she did. Then there flashed upon her mind, as 
though she had seen it written by somp spirit hand 
upon the sky, “There is Mr. Percy.” She knew him 
well, though of late she had seen little of him. He 
now seldom came to the Hall ; but at one time, when 
Lawrence was his pupil, he had been a more frequent 


270 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


visitor, and had impressed her very favorably. Her 
cousin had always spoken of him in the highest terms. 
He was a man she could trust, and whose advice would 
be valuable. But he lived ten miles away, and what 
excuse could she frame for visiting him? Moreover, 
she was very unwilling to leave her patient alone and 
unprotected for so many hours. The post had gone, 
and upon the whole she decided to telegraph to Mr. 
Percy the next morning. It would be impossible to 
state the reason of her summons, or make any allusion 
to her uncle, for the postmaster, like most other folk in 
Hillsland, was under the squire’s thumb. It was a case 
in which some duplicity was permissible. Pray come 
at once,’' was the form which, after some considera- 
tion, her message took. ''1 wish to consult you in con- 
nection with Lawrence. Urgent.” 

The matter had certainly some connection with Law- 
rence, as with herself. If her uncle should get to know 
of the telegram, she would have to tell him of her 
cousin’s having gone to town ; but under present circum- 
stances she rightly judged that no communication re- 
garding his nephew would have much effect upon the 
squire. He had other things to think about. So, in- 
deed, had she. For the time, Lawrence and his affairs 
were banished from her thoughts. It was better — not- 
withstanding the need in which she stood of sympathy 
— that he was not at home. His indignation against 
his uncle, whose guilt he would have taken for granted, 
would have been overwhelming, and impossible to re- 
strain. It wa^ difficult, indeed, for herself to conceal 
the horror with which she regarded him. And it was 
so necessary to conceal it. In the case of one so subtle, 
to be forewarned was to be forearmed; and with so 


BY THE SICK-BED. 


271 


deadly a design in his mind, the least thing was likely 
to arouse his suspicions. She fancied, in fact, that he 
already had them : that he glanced at her askance, and 
watched her as she waited on the invalid with unusual 
attention. How she kept her wits about her was a 
wonder to herself, but she did so. She even promised 
him to do her best the next day to reason “ his precious 
Popsey” out' of her prejudice against the nourishment 
that had been specially recommended for her. “ If she 
continues to be so fixed against it,’’ he said, “I must 
devise some other form of food.” He was going to 
make the doctor his cat’s-paw, as before, Ruth felt, 
with a shudder. 

Before the invalid had settled down for the night, 
the ex-commissioner paid her a visit. Notwithstand- 
ing she had been ill so long, it was his first visit; but 
there was nothing surprising in that. He kept himself 
almost as secluded from his own family as from the 
outside world. What struck Ruth was her grand- 
father’s manner, which was, for a wonder, interested and 
at the same time distrait. His tone, when he addressed 
his daughter-in-law, was unusually kind, for he had 
never liked her, and she knew it. He thought her full 
of fads and fancies, which he objected to because it pre- 
vented the undivided attention which was his due be- 
ing paid to himself. Pie had probably not hitherto 
believed that her illness was a serious one; but it was 
plain that he did so now. Indeed, his very tenderness 
alarmed the poor woman, who afterward inquired of 
Ruth whether her grandfather thought she was about 
to die, he was so civil. 

Ruth met the inquiry with a smile, though it made 
her sick at heart, for she felt that the invalid had rightly 


2J2 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


interpreted liis manner. Robert must have told him 
what he had told Mr. Grueby. It was only to be ex- 
pected — if her suspicions of him were correct, and they 
grew stronger every hour — that he .should thus prepare 
those about him for that termination of her illness 
which he had only too -good grounds for foreseeing. 
But there was something else unusual in her grand- 
father’s manner, though not so significant. When not 
actually conversing with his daughter-in-law, he ap- 
peared as self-involved as herself and oblivious to what 
was going on. Was it possible that he was calculating 
the future? — forecasting the benefits that would be de- 
rived from her decease? That such an idea should 
enter into Ruth’s mind was a proof how saturated it 
was with the thought of her uncle’s delinquencies; for 
her grandfather was one of the most egotistic of men. 
If Mrs. Robert’s fortune had been coming to him, he 
would doubtless have been interested enough in the 
matter; but his son’s affairs were by no means his. 
Robert was independent of him. The idea of getting 
him off his hands, which would no doubt have occurred 
to the ex-commissioner in the case of any other member 
of his family, could not exist as regarded Robert. 

What then made him so preoccupied? Surely the 
son could never have confided to the father the wicked- 
ness he had in contemplation? Yet even this sugges- 
tion obtruded itself on the unhappy Ruth. The burden 
of responsibility that had been laid upon her shoulders 
was, in fact, too great for them to bear. Another 
twenty-four hours with this continued strain upon her 
mind, and with no one in whom to confide, would, she 
felt, overthrow her balance. Like a sick man, she 
longed for the morning, for if Mr. Percy was at home 
she felt he would not fail her. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


MORE TROUBLE. 

Before breakfast next morning Ruth took her tele- 
gram to the village post-office. It was a lovely day, 
but the glories of the summer morning had no charms 
for her. On the contrary, the contrast of the bright 
and beautiful landscape and pure sweet air with the 
thoughts within her depressed her. That the earth 
should look so fair while such deeds were in contem- 
plation, seemed to prove how little Nature was in sym- 
pathy with man. As she passed “ The Corner” she was 
astonished to see Mr. Richard Salesby in his garden, at 
so early an hour. He was one of those gentlemen who 
likes to have the world well warmed for them before 
they step into it. If they ever ‘‘ meet the sun upon the 
upland lawn,” it is because they have sat up all night. 
And indeed, to look at him, you would have said that 
this was exactly what Mr. Salesby had done. His ap- 
pearance was unkempt, his beard unshorn, his scanty 
crop of iron-gray hair uncombed ; the expression of his 
face was so wild and angry, as he stood at his garden 
gate, with his short black pipe in his mouth, that Ruth 
would have avoided him altogether if she could ; but 
the footpath skirted his domain, and to have crossed 
the narrow road to the other side would have been self- 
evident in its purpose. 


273 


274 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


“Good morning, Mr. Salesby, ” she murmured, as she 
drew near him. 

“ I see nothing good in the morning,” was the uncon- 
ciliatory reply, “ nor, for that matter, in the afternoon 
neither. There’s nothing good in the world; every- 
thing’s bad, but especially women. ” 

“ That is not polite to myself, nor fair to your daugh- 
ter,” said Ruth, forcing a smile. 

“As for yourself, then, I apologize,” he answered, 
looking at her, not very steadily, because his whole 
body was swaying from side to side, but with a scru- 
tinizing glance that had no disfavor in it. “ Drunk or 
sober, I know a lady when I see her. And you could 
not speak like that about my girl if you wasn’t straight. 
I don’t think you know anything about her. Not that 
/want to know, either. I’ve done with her.” 

“ Done with her? Done with your daughter, Kitty? 
What do you mean?” 

“Just what I say; neither more nor less. She’s 
made her own bed, and may lie on it. It’s not your 
fault; no, nor his fault; though, mind you, if I catch 
him at Hillsland, I’ll wring his neck for him. She’s a 
downright bad un. A girl as ’ud deceive her own 
father, and such a father as I’ve been to her, too — never 
denied her anything, and let her take her own way, 
just as she pleased — Well, she’ll deceive hlm^ that’s one 
comfort.” 

“ Deceive whom?” was on Ruth’s lips, but the words 
never past them. A terrible fear took possession of 
her; quite as great as that which had fallen upon her in 
the summer-house yesterday. If Kitty had deceived 
her father, perhaps she had deceived her, and in the 
same matter. Even in that moment of horror and de- 


MORE TROUBLE. 


275 


spair she thought no ill of Lawrence. As this poor 
drunken creature had himself admitted, Lorry (if, in- 
deed, it was her cousin of whom he spoke) was not to 
blame. But if Kitty had fled to him ? One little hand 
mechanically sought the gate, and clung to it, just as 
Mr. Salesby was clinging to it — and for the same rea- 
son, to prevent herself from falling. 

“ Ah, you know he said, with hideous sagacity. 

She used to say as you were sweet upon him yourself. 
I was thinking about that this morning, but concluded 
it was only one of her lies to put me off the scent ; but 
it seems she was telling the truth for once. ’Well, you 
had an escape; for though, as I just said, I don’t blame 
him as I blame her, he’s a scoundrel and a liar too. 
She would never have gone to him without an invita- 
tion; and as sure as the sun is in heaven, if I ever 
again catch sigh of him I’ll wring his neck. A pretty 
thing, indeed, the oldest family in the county to end 
this way. ‘Came in with the Conqueror, ’ as the saying 
is, and gone out like a farthing candle! If he’d mar- 
ried her it would have been bad enough ; but, of course, 
he won’t marry her! My Kitty a light-o-love, a trol- 
lop ” and the wretched father burst into tears. 

“You are wrong, and are doing Kitty wrong,’* cried 
Ruth, for though what she meant was “you are doing 
Lawrence wrong,"' the spectacle of the unhappy man 
in his grief was infinitely more touching than it had 
been in his tipsy wrath, and made her very heart ache. 
“ It is not possible that she could so disgrace her- 
self. ’’ 

“Possible!” he echoed contemptuously; “she has 
confessed as much. I’ve got it under her own hand. 
That is, I had, but I’ve torn up the letter. I want to 


276 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

see nothing more of her, or hers — never again, never 
again !” 

“You have 7iot torn up her letter, Mr. Salesby,” said 
Ruth gently. “ Let me see it." 

It was a bold stroke, the result of instinct rather than 
of reason ; but it succeeded. 

“ I don’t know whether I have or haven’t," said the 
man doggedly; and as he spoke he drew it out of his 
pocket with his disengaged hand, which had been clasp- 
ing it there all the time. “ Yes, here it is. She wrote 
it last night, and left it on the table for me to see — a 
pretty sight for a father — and then went off by the 
morning mail. She must have walked ten miles with 
her little bag to meet it. She took nothing with her 
but her little bag. My poor Kitty! But there. I’ve 
done with her.” 

It was shocking to see his maudlin misery, to hear his 
vehement resolve to wash his hands of his daughter, 
but worse of all to listen to one of those touches of true 
pathos that bespoke him human still “ under the ihud. " 
What gave Ruth some little comfort was the evident 
satisfaction of the wretched man in having found some- 
one in whom he could confide, and even look for sym- 
pathy. She was no longer afraid of him ; indeed, he 
seemed to be afraid of her^ as, having placed the letter 
in her hand, he waited with anxious look for the deduc- 
tion she should draw from its contents, which were 
brief and curt enough : 

“ Father, I am going away to London, where it would be 
useless for you to look for me. I have found some one to 
care for me, which has not been, I must say, the case at 
home. In saying good-by, however, I do not wish to 
blame you. The less inquiry you make about me the better 


MORE TROUBLE. 


277 


it will be for both of us. You need not fret about my 
future, which is provided for. Kitty.” 

“Well, well, what do you think of it?” inquired Mr. 
Salesby impatiently. “ Better than I do, to judge by 
*your face. ” 

This was not at all the case, so far as the writer of 
that epistle was concerned. There was, in fact, but 
one inference to be drawn from it, which shocked and 
distressed Ruth exceedingly; but unless it was com- 
posed with great duplicity, and the intention of throw- 
ing the reader off the scent, it seemed plain to her that 
the person, whoever he was, who had been found to 
“ care for” the unhappy girl, could not be Lawrence 
Merridew. That was not the language she would have 
used in his case, nor was it possible that “ her future 
could have been provided for” by such a course of con- 
duct. It was not to be expected, however, that the 
satisfaction Ruth derived from this conviction should 
be shared by Mr. Salesby ; and, indeed, she felt no lit- 
tle remorse for having entertained it in the presence of 
such shame and sorrow. It was impossible to tell Kit- 
ty’s father what she thought of the girl’s intentions, so 
she took refuge in interrogation. 

“Was your daughter acquainted with any one in 
town to whom her expression ‘caring for her’ could 
possibly apply so far as you know, Mr. Salesby?” 

“ Only one person, and you know him as well as I 
do, and better,” he answered doggedly. 

“ If you mean my cousin, you are certainly mis- 
taken,” she answered quickly. “I say nothing of his 
being a man of honor, and incapable of baseness ; but 
he has hardly enough money to support himself, much 
less to insure the future of another person. ” 


27S A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

“ Then you think no one has promised her marriage?’' 

Ruth was silent. . She could not give the answer that 
was needed, and Mr. Salesby’s face, like the Gorgon’s, 
seemed to turn her into stone. She understood now 
that which he had hoped for, while pretending to de- 
nounce it, was that Kitty had found shelter with her 
cousin, who might at least “ have made an honest wo- 
man of her,” and that this hope had fled. 

“Give me back her note,” he said, hoarsely. He 
took it and tore it along and across, and threw the 
pieces to the wind. “ That is the last of her!” he said. 
“ 1 have done with her! Never speak to me about her 
again, Miss Ruth.” 

With that he staggered along the garden path, and 
passed into his house, slamming the door behind him. 
Ruth’s heart bled for the poor drunken wretch. Under 
any other circumstances she would have thought of 
nothing else save Kitty and her father. It was a trag- 
edy sufficient to monopolize any mind. But unhappily 
there was another, darker still, and that had not yet 
reached its denoueinerit^ which pressed upon her attention. 
For the moment, in this terrible domestic revelation, 
she had almost lost sight of it; but now the errand on 
which she had come out that morning recurred to her. 
On the one hand was Ruin, which no action of hers 
could mitigate or deter; on the other was Death, which 
it was possible for her to avert. In the one the blow 
had fallen, in the other the victim was only menaced. 
It behooved her to be up and doing, and to leave lamen- 
tation for a fitter time. 

The post-office at Hillsland was a very small affair. 
It was a little shop where candles and string were sold 
in tiny quantities, and where nothing was kept in stock 


MORE TROUBLE. 


279 


but lollipops. Bottles of them of different hues stood 
in the window, looking like a parody of a chemist’s 
shop. It was not so long ago since Ruth herself had 
bought “ bullseyes” and “ peppermints” there. The old 
postmistress had known her from a child, and could 
hardly picture her as having grown up. 

“ Lawk a-daisy. Miss Ruth, you are early this morn- 
ing. And how’s Mrs. Robert? I have heard as how 
she’s very sadly.” 

“ She is certainly very unwell. I want to send this 
telegram, please.” 

“Yes, sure. Elizabeth!” The old woman raised 
her voice to summon her niece, who was the telegraph- 
ist, from upstairs. “Well, I am glad as you are sending 
for another doctor. They think it so strange in Hills- 
land.” 

“ But I am not sending for another doctor; I am tele- 
graphing for Mr. Percy.” 

“Mercy me, the parson! She’s so bad as that, be 
she?” 

Ruth answered nothing, but gave the girl her tele- 
gram, who read it out aloud. “ I wish to consult you in 
connection with Lawrence. Urgent.” 

“ Deary me, then,” said the older woman; “the news 
must be true about Miss Kitty.” 

“ What news?” inquired Ruth with such unwonted 
sharpness and anger that it even struck the old gossip 
that she had put two and two, or rather one and one, 
together a little hastily. 

“Well, Miss Ruth, it was only my idea,” she mur- 
mured apologetically; “but Jim Bell, the maltster, he 
did say as how he saw Miss Kitty step into the mail 
train this morning: and who could she be after, says I 


28 o 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


to myself, except Master Lawrence. She’s been very 
queer ever since he went away^ the servant gal up at 
‘The Corner’ told our Martha, and we all know how 
thick they was together before. But I dare say you 
knows better.” 

“ I know nothing of where Miss Kitty is gone, nor 
does my cousin either. This has nothing to do witli 
her at all,” said Ruth, hardly knowing what she said. 
All those suspicions had flocked round her again which 
Kitty’s letter had put to flight. 

Kitty’s fondness for Lawrence was, it seemed, the 
talk of the village. Never, surely, had any girl such 
causes for wretchedness as herself. And yet it was 
absolutely necessary for her not to dwell upon them. * 
To put herself out of sight, and keep her head cool and 
her judgment clear, for the sake of others, was her 
plain duty. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 

Breakfast at the Hall that morning was for Ruth a 
cruel ordeal. Appetite, of course, she had none, and 
while she affected to eat she had to listen to the con- 
ventional talk about the invalid, which for her had ac- 
quired such a terrible interest. 

Mrs. Merridew thought ill of “ dear Rosa’s” condition, 
while Miss Jane took an opposite, though it could 
hardly be called a more cheerful, view: ascribed her 
aversion to food as partly affectation, and did hope that 
when the doctor came he would induce her to listen to 
reason, which it seemed Robert was unable to do. 

Ruth did not dare visit the sick-room for fear she 
should be detained, and Mr. Percy, or a telegram from 
him, arrive in her absence. She got Mrs. Merridew to 
take her place, on plea of a severe headache — which, 
indeed, was no pretence on her part — and kept in her 
own little sitting-room. Its window commanded the 
road leading from the village, and at it she sat with her 
fevered brow pressed against the pane. We have most 
of us had to watch and wait for events which Fate 
holds in her hand and distributes independently of our 
control — when poor humanity sits like a beggar at the 
gate of the Future, and looks for scraps of comfort ; too 
‘often in vain. But in Ruth’s case there was not only 
anxiety but a weight of responsibility, such as her young 

281 


282 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


shoulders were hardly fitted to bear. The very issues 
of life and death might depend on her. 

Though Mr. Percy could not arrive within two hours 
at earliest, a telegram might, but this, if he was not at 
home, she did not expect. He would understand her 
position : that her message was of her own sending and 
not intended for publication of any kind, which a reply 
from him was likely to involve. If he was only at 
home she knew she could trust to his tact, as to his sym- 
pathy ; but he might be away, and in his absence — on a 
pleasure tour or a visit, or even a shopping expedition 
to the county town — there might be murder done. 

At last, on the summit of the hill, she beheld the 
sight she sought : the rector on his big black cob — his 
only personal extravagance, for it had been a costly 
animal — and riding at a rate that was very unusual 
with him. Tears of gratitude, both to God and man, 
sprang to Ruth’s eyes. Half her anxieties, because 
she knew they would be shared, seemed to vanish at 
once. 

How sweet is the sight of a friend in need! And 
this was no fair-weather friend. A man whose hand 
could be trusted to steady one over ever so deep a 
stream, and the clasp of which even in that last hour, 
when the waters of death are rising, had given assur- 
ance to many a sinking soul. As he galloped by, Ruth 
threw up the window and pointed to the stables. He 
drew rein at once, and, having disposed of his horse, 
came on foot to the front door, where, as he knew, she 
would be waiting for him. She took both his hands, 
with a “ Thank heaven, ” instead of “Good day,” and 
led him to her boudoir. 

“You have a charming view,” he said, as he looked 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 


283 


out Upon it, to give her time — also because he saw she 
would have broken down had he looked at her, or 
touched at once the matter concerning which he had 
been summoned. “ It commands the lake even better 
than Lawrence’s old room did. Now what is it about 
our Lorry?” 

It is not about Lorry at all, dear Mr. Percy; I 
wish it were — a subterfuge which you will forgive ” 
(for his forehead clouded), and even commend when 
you know all. It is about Mrs. Robert.” 

'‘Your uncle’s wife?” 

"Yes, his wife,” she answered, with a shiver. "The 
woman he has sworn to love and to cherish. He is 
murdering her by slow poison.” 

"Great heaven! you must be dreaming! My dear 
Ruth, you have been sadly tried of late, I know; anxie- 
ty and sorrow ” * 

"Oh! pray at least believe that I have not lost my 
wits,” exclaimed the girl beseechingly. This was the 
one difficulty that had not occurred to her in all her 
forecasts, and yet she was compelled to acknowledge 
that the suspicion was a natural one. " I am not mad, 
though I have suffered enough to make me so.” 

"I know, I know,” he answered soothingly; "first 
one trouble and then another. Lawrence’s going, and 
then your aunt’s death, and now this illness in the 
house. ” 

"It is about that that I want to speak,” she mur- 
mured hoarsely. "I may be wrong; heaven grant I 
may be found so. Only listen to me ; then judge for 
yourself. ” 

He nodded and smiled, and drew a chair beside her 
own. 


284 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

“Come, let us hear your story,’' he said encourag- 
ingly, as though she were a timid child. 

Then she told it to him, every detail of it, in a 
hushed voice, but quite distinctly and coherently. His 
face was full of interest throughout, but at first it was 
only tender and sorrowful. His interest was in the 
speaker alone ; but as she went on it was transferred to 
the subject. His face became anxious and troubled, 
then grave and stern. His brow grew dark, his lips 
moved inarticulately, unintentionally urged by the 
thoughts within him. He never interrupted her by a 
word. 

When she had done he rose and paced the room. 

“It is a terrible indictment!” he murmured; “but 
his foreknowledge of the end, and his concealment of 
it; the benefit he derives from her death ; his necessity 
for a large sum of money; his making the porridge with 
his own hands, and his extreme solicitude that she 
should take it, though it has such ill effects upon her; 
these, indeed, awaken suspicion. But, after all, we 
have no proof.” 

Ruth unlocked a drawer and took out the marmalade 
jar, covered and sealed up. 

“There is the proof,” she said. “It must be ana- 
lyzed.” 

“That is an excellent suggestion. You are a wise 
girl,” he said. 

“I would rather you still thought me mad,” she 
sighed. “ Not that I am really wise ; but I have thought 
of little else for the last twenty-four hours. You are 
something of a chemist, I know.” 

He shook his head. “ This must not be touched save 
by some disinterested person. Maitland, the public an- 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 


285 


alyst, lives at Coleborough. I will take it to him this 
very day. As this has been going on so long, there is 
probably no immediate danger of the man’s design — if 
he has the design — being carried into effect. I will let 
you know the result at once. But, what then?” 

“ Do not ask me. I have thought that out. If I did 
but know for certain, I could make all safe; of that I 
am convinced. It will be better that you should know 
as little possible.” 

It is a serious thing, this leaving so grave a matter 
to such young hands; but what the girl had already 
done showe^l her worthy of confidence. There was 
even risk in it to himself. Was it not his duty, if sus- 
picion skoLild be confirmed, to at once invoke the aid of 
the law? That meant public exposure — shame unspeak- 
able to the very person whose life they were planning 
to preserve — th.o ruin of an honorable family. 

‘‘We must net condone a crime,” he answered med- 
itatively. “ It is ro less our duty to punish the guilty 
than to save the innocent.” 

“ The guilty shell bo punished; I swear it,” replied 
the girl firmljn “But would this poor woman thank 
us for her life if she knew that the man she calls ‘the 
best of husbands’ had, under the pretence of nursing 
her, been compassing her death for weeks? Do think 
of her as well as of him !” 

“ I am not sure I am right, Ruth. If I asked a law- 
yer, he would say I am wrong. But I will trust you.” 

“Heaven bless you, Mr. Percy, for those words! 
You will never have cause to repent of them; you will 
be thankful for having uttered them.” Her face was 
pale and wet with dew; her hands trembled as she 
wrapped ‘the jar up in brown paper for her visitor to 


286 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


take with him. You will ride fast; you will not lose 
a moment?’' she cried impatiently. 

‘‘My dear Ruth,” he answered very gravely, “you 
must listen to reason. You are overwrought, as it is, 
and to dwell upon the matter while it is yet unsettled, 
will drive you crazy. It is absolutely necessary that 
you should divorce your mind from it. It is no use my 
riding fast to Coleborough. Maitland’s office closes at 
two, and no speed could get me there in time to see him. 
But he shall have the jar to-night, with a letter from 
me to bespeak urgency, though of course saying nothing 
of the circumstances, and you shall hear from me to- 
morrow morning. In the mean time, if I am to retain 
my confidence in you, you must promise me to do your 
best to ignore the matter. You have novr other things 
to think of.” 

vShe nodded and faintly smiled. Though the subject 
of her uncle’s crime was monopolizing her mind, as 
well it might be, she had certainly other topics — only 
less important than it — to engage her attention. 

“They are not very cheerful things,” she sighed; 
“but they are better than this thing, and I will try to 
think of them.” 

“ Then why not talk of them while my horse is get- 
ting his corn, of which, indeed, he will stand in need 
before the day is out? Have you heard lately from 
Lawrence?” 

“ Mrs. Merridew has heard. He seems to be getting 
on fairly well, and he has found good friends in 
London.” 

In London? I thought he was with Sir Charles 
Walden.” 

“ No, he has left Hurl by for some time. It was 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 


287 


meant to be a secret, but I am sure you deserve his 
fullest confidence. And, after all, what does it mat- 
ter — what does anything matter — when such things are 
going on under this very roof. ” 

Mr. Percy looked distressed and disappointed. This 
outbreak was only too significant of the fever of anxiety 
and impatience that was consuming the poor girl under 
that thin crust of dismissal she had put on to please 
him. Such thoughts could not be dismissed; all that 
could be hoped for was mitigation and postponement. 

“We do not know these things are going on, Ruth,” 
he answered mildly. “ We hope they are not going on ; 
and if they are, we are taking what means lie in our 
power to put a stop to them. What you tell me of 
Lawrence is very surprising. Is it decided that he is 
not going to Singapore, which, he seemed to dread so?” 

“Nothing is decided; though he has made up his 
mind, I think, at all hazards, to remain in England. 
No one here knows anything of his intentions or his 
movements, save his mother and myself. But he has 
gone to London in the hope of making a living by his 
pen.” 

“ And who are these friends of whom you spoke?” 

“ They are a Mr. Latham and his two sisters. Law- 
rence was recommended to them by Sir Charles Walden. 
They seem to have been very kind to him.” 

“ It is a great risk,” he murmured. “ Lorry is very 
young, and knows nothing of the world. I mistrust 
Sir Charles’ friends.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because I mistrust Sir Charles. You have seen or 
heard nothing of him^ I suppose, of late?” 

“ Nothing at all.” 


288 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


Mr. Percy had looked at her very searchingly as he 
put that question ; but it had evoked no spark of inter- 
est, no flush of color. However monopolizing was the 
leading topic in her mind, if there had been anything 
serious between her and the baronet the mention of 
his name would surely have moved her a little. He 
was glad that it had not done so. It also left him free 
to speak his mind about the man. 

“ I hope Lawrence has not placed himself under obli- 
gations to Sir Charles.” 

I cannot say that. It would, indeed, be most 
ungrateful not to feel them, for he has done him good 
service; has taken a great deal of trouble — which, as you 
know, is not his way — in launching him in literature. 
Pie has been a true friend to Lawrence. ” 

” But not a patron, I hope. He has not lent him 
money?” 

“ No, certainly not. Lorry would not have liked any- 
thing of that kind. He put him in the way of earning 
something just to start with, that is all.” 

I had hopes that your aunt, Mrs. Lock, might have 
left the lad something.” 

“She had nothing Good Heavens! until this mo- 

ment I had clean forgotten, by-the-bye, that she made 
me the custodian of some papers. They are of no 
value, for the poor soul had no property of any kind ; 
but she seemed anxious they should not fall into — into 
strange hands. ” She had been about to say “ my uncle’s 
hands,” but repugnance, or the recollection that the 
topic was forbidden, restrained her. Mr. Percy attrib- 
uted it to the latter cause, which gave him pleasure. 

“ That looks as if the papers were valuable,” he an- 
swered, smiling, “or why should she have been so care- 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 289 

ful? Let me look at them. She left no will, I sup- 
pose?” 

“ She had nothing to leave.” 

Ruth took from her desk the packet Aunt Jerry had 
given her, and gave it into Mr. Percy’s hands. In the 
whirl of events which had taken place of late, the pos- 
session of it had entirely slipped her recollection. If 
there was anything in it that required action, or even 
attention, she felt herself utterly unequal to cope with 
it now. 

“ Be so good as to take it,” she said wearily, “ and ad- 
vise me if anything requires to be done. I feel like a 
child;” then she added, with a sweet smile, “and look 
to you as though you were my father.” 

“ Then I have your permission to open it?” 

“ Of course. It is only adding a further weight to 
the peck of troubles which you are undertaking for my 
sake. ” 

Mr. Percy opened the packet, and examined its con- 
tents, which consisted only of a few documents. They 
seemed to interest him, however, for he did not speak 
for some minutes. 

“ Did your aunt say nothing to you of these papers, 
besides the injunction to take care of them?” 

Ruth started at his voice. The silence had been fatal 
to her resolution ; her thoughts had reverted to the old 
topic. “ I beg your pardon. I did not hear you.” 

He repeated his question. 

“Aunt Jerry told me it was something about some 
shares in a mine; her husband had said, ‘stick to them.’ 
I do not think she quite knew what she was talking 
about. She seemed to attach a value to them because 
of her husband’s words, though they were, in fact, 

19 


290 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


worth nothing. That was the impression she produced 
on me.” 

“Just so; and most likely the correct one. I will, 
however, make inquiries into the matter. Now I 
must go.” 

He put the papers into a pocket of his coat, but 
Ruth’s eyes were fixed on the other pocket, which held 
the marmalade jar. That was the only matter in 
which she felt an interest. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


THE patron’s emissary. 

Callers were rare in Nelson Crescent. Mr. Latham 
mixed with society at his clnb, and found it quite 
enough for him. His sisters would have liked more 
society, but the kind of people they would have wel- 
comed would not have been very acceptable to their 
brother. It was in this matter only that his liberality 
to them was deficient. “ Our dear brother will never 
ask anybody to the house.” This was an advantage to 
Lawrence in one way, because, being almost their only 
male visitor, the ladies made even more of him than 
they were naturall}^ inclined to do. On the other 
hand, it prevented the circle of his own acquaintance 
from expanding. It was very well for Mr. Latham to 
be content with meeting friends of his own sex, mostly 
of his own age, and addicted to the same studious pur- 
suits as himself ; but a young fellow who wishes to 
study life and know the world should have wider oppor- 
tunities. Moreover, Lawrence did not belong to a club, 
and had to make or scrape acquaintances for himself. 
Some of them,, thus casually picked up, he was only 
too glad to drop again; for Bohemia, prolific in scamps, 
has, alas! in its picturesque but somewhat barren 
territories, not a few scoundrels. 

Mr Latham did, indeed, introduce him to one or two 
literary men of a high class, but they were mostly 

291 


292 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


bachelors like himself. Mr. Martyn, however, one of 
the chief contributors to The Areopagus^ was a married 
man, and had a charming wife. Lawrence soon became 
a great favorite of hers, and through her he began to 
know people worth knowing and to be regarded favor- 
ably. This led him into no extravagances, while at 
the same time it did not interfere with his literary 
work. He read a great deal, and wrote most persever- 
ingly. About nine-tenths of what he wrote came back 
to him like a boomerang. At first it hurt him, because 
it struck the bump of self-esteem, which in the young 
is a tender place ; but presently he began to be inured 
to it, though far, indeed, from coinciding with the 
opinion of his editors that his contributions were sad 
rubbish. Sometimes he rewrote them (when they 
usually became worse than before: you can’t mend 
blotting paper), but generally he sent them to lower 
and lower periodicals till at last they found acceptance 
with The Penny Truinpet. 

“ I see your name, Mr. Merridew, everywhere,” ob- 
served Mrs. Martyn, in her good-natured way. 

‘‘But in very queer places,” he answered modestly, 
and, indeed, not without a blush ; for The Trumpet was 
a good advertiser. 

“ Oh, but you shine in the zenith as well as the nadir. ” 

“ If you mean The Areopagus by the zenith,” he re- 
plied,” my appearances are very rare there.” 

Then he began to tell her, for he was frank as the 
day and, like all young writers, loved to talk shop, 
what be did write for, and what he got. 

“ But you don’t mean to say that you get twenty times 
— literally twenty times — more from The Areopagus than 
what you say you get from The Trumpet V 


THE patron’s emissary. 


293 


“Yes, I do; literally, exactly.” 

“ Why, that’s more than my husband gets,” exclaimed 
the lady, which was outrageous. 

“Oh, but,” said Lorry hastily, “Mr. Latham alters 
my articles very much, and, indeed, they are as much 
his as mine.” 

“ But that is a reason why he should give you less, 
not more,"” she answered. The position was incon- 
trovertible. 

Lawrence blamed his own want of reticence, and 
then, as he thought of the matter afterward, a more 
serious consideration even than the mischief he might 
have done, obtruded itself. Though he had a good 
conceit of himself, he could not but put the question, 
“ Why should I be paid more than Mr. Martyn, who in 
literature is far my superior?” His wife, as if to make 
amends for her astonishment, had said in her pleasant 
way, “ You come under the most favored nation clause, 
indeed!” And could it be that he 7uas favored? Did 
Mr. Latham pay him more than he was worth because 
he liked him, or because he was poor? The bare sup- 
position of such a thing wounded him to the quick. 
Then he remembered that for his first article, a very 
short one, written from Hillsland before Mr. Latham 
had so much as seen him, that gentleman had sent him 
ten pounds. It could not, therefore, be charity that 
he had been receiving; and yet it was very strange that 
he should get more than Mr. Martyn. It was a subject 
that he could hardly broach to Mr. Latham ; the editor 
of The Areopagus always shrank from pecuniary matters, 
and it would be odious to him to hear that his rate of 
payment for contributions had been the subject of dis- 
cussion. On the very morning that Lawrence was puz- 


294 


A MODERN DICK. WHITTINGTON. 


zling himself with this riddle, a visitor called in Nelson 
Crescent who could have answered it for him, and whose 
mission, indeed, had some relation to that very matter. 

It was a visitor whom certainly Mr. Latham did not 
expect ; but he was not unknown ; a most respectable, 
taciturn-looking person, who might have been a divine 
or a Buddhist of the first degree, or an undertaker — in 
fact. Sir Charles Walden’s very private secretary, Mr. 
Harbord. 

Mr. Latham had no great regard for this gentleman, 
whom he suspected of knowing more of his friend’s 
concerns than any man ought to know of another’s. 
He had a suspicion that the modest and retiring Mr. 
Harbord was a low lot. 

“ Hullo! you in London?” was his not very hospitable 
greeting. “ I thought you were a fixture at Hurlby, 
like the heirlooms.” 

Mr. Harbord smiled as though his being likened to 
an heirloorn and at Hurlby was rather a compliment 
than otherwise. “It is not often I am in town,” he 
owned; “but just now a little business, if I may call it 
so, has called me up.” 

Mr. Latham looked at him with such disfavor that 
one might have thought the phrase “ called up” had 
reminded him of the devil. 

“What is it, now?” he said; “some mischief. I’ll be 
bound. ” 

“ Far from it, I assure you. Sir Charles left word 
that I should see you as soon as possible after his 
departure. ” 

“Departure! Where’s he gone to? I thought he 
was at Hurlby. ” 

“ No, he has gone abroad.” 


THE patron’s emissary. 


295 

“ Abroad ! Why, I had a letter from him a week ago, 
without a word of his going abroad in it.” 

“ It was rather sudden. Circumstances beyond his 
control precipitated it.” 

‘‘Some very agreeable circumstance, no doubt,” said 
Mr. Latham with scornful irritation. 

“ I never said — that is I know nothing about it.” 

“What an infernal fool he is!” exclaimed the other, 
with apparent inconsequence. “ There is no fool like 
an old fool.” 

“ That is a matter which you can scarcely expect me 
to discuss, Mr. Latham,” said the secretary mildly. 

“ Quite right. I was a fool myself to make to you, 
of all men, such an obvious observation. And it was 
also unbecoming. Well?” 

“ Sir Charles asked me to say, as it is probable he 
may be away for some considerable time, and will not 
be corresponding with him, that he would like, if pos- 
sible, some provision — some permanent provision — to 
be made for a young gentleman in whom he feels a 
great deal of interest, Mr. Lawrence Merridew. If it 
could be done without his becoming aware of who was 
his benefactor — through some means connected with 
literature — he would be particularly obliged.” 

“ Make him a bogus offer of a thousand pounds for 
one of his sketches of London life, I suppose?” 

“Just so; something of that nature,” said Mr. Har- 
bord, imperturbably. 

“I will be a party to no such duplicity,” said Mr. 
Latham hotly. “ You may tell Sir Charles — since he 
does not condescend to communicate with me person- 
ally upon the subject — that I repent what I have done 
for him in this matter already. ” 


296 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

“One moment,” interposed Mr. Harbord, with unex- 
pected and indeed unexampled promptness. “ I should 
have said at first, but that I thought it impossible for 
you to have taken umbrage in the case of so old a 
friend, that time did not admit of Sir Charles seeing 
you ; while to write of the thing was — well — letters 
sometimes fall into other hands than those they are 
intended for. The matter is a delicate one.” 

“ Then let him undertake it himself. He has more 
tact than I have.” 

“ There are reasons which make it impossible that Sir 
Charles could — just now — enter into personal relations 
with Mr. Merridew. Any overtures from him, how- 
ever generous, would be misconstrued.” 

“Good heavens! Sir Charles has not run off with 
Miss What’s-her-name, Merridew’s cousin, surely!” 

“ Dear, dear, how could such an idea enter your 
mind!” exclaimed Mr. Harbord in a tone of great dis- 
tress. “ Most certainly not.” 

“ I am glad to hear it; for, let me tell you, and you 
may tell your — I mean Sir Charles — that if anything of 
that nature had taken place, he and I would have had 
nothing more to say to one another. I have a great 
regard for Mr. Merridew.” 

“ Surely, surely, and so has Sir Charles, as indeed 
he has demonstrated. His only desire is to benefit 
him.” 

“ Then let him do it in a straightforward fashion. 
As I was about to say, I already repent, not of hav- 
ing assisted this young man — far from it — but of having 
done so by underhand means. The giving him larger 
sums for his contributions than they were worth, how- 
ever well intended, was an error, and you may tell 


THE patron’s emissary. 


297 


Walden that it must come to an end. It has put this 
young man in a fool’s paradise. He is working hard 
and getting on, but he naturally imagines he is doing 
better than he is. If it was only himself who was con- 
cerned, as I thought was the case when Sir Charles 
proposed the plan, there would have been no great 
harm in it; but the lad is trying to make a home for 
his mother and a cousin, to whom I understand, he is 
engaged to be married. ” 

Oh, is he?” exclaimed Mr. Harbord, with great in- 
terest, and in a tone of relief ; then that will simplify 
matters.” 

“ I don’t see how. On the contrary, it seems to me 
to complicate them. I say, considering the difficulties 
and responsibilities with which the young man is sur- 
rounded, it is abominable to keep him in the dark as 
to his true position. I suppose I must tell him that 
The Areopagus can’t afford to pay so well as it did.” 

^‘That is easy enough,” observed Mr. Harbord 
naively. 

‘‘Easy as lying always is to some people,” retorted 
Mr. Latham ; “ but it is also a humiliation — though that^ 
too, some people find it easy to stomach.” 

“Very true,” assented the other, nodding his head as 
if in assent to some abstract proposition. “ I’ll write 
to Sir Charles what you say.” 

“ Upon my life you are a cool hand,” exclaimed Mr. 
Latham, not without a touch of admiration. 

“ I never 'allow sentiment to interfere with business, 
that is all,” answered the other modestly. “ I cannot 
afford it. Sir Charles can.” 

“/know, ’’said Mr. Latham, amused in spite of him- 
self. “ His recent departure from our shores is probably 


29S A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

not altogether disconnected with it? Cherchez la femme ^ 
eh?” 

“I am unacquainted with the French language,” re- 
turned Mr. Harbord regretfully. “ Then I am to say 
that you decline to be Sir Charles’s almoner altogether, 
even to the extent that you have hitherto been. It 
seems hard on Mr. Merridew. ” 

“It seeriis hard; but, as I have said, it would, in my 
opinion, be harder on him to continue any further 
deception. This is unintelligible to you, no doubt. I 
am afraid you may not make the case quite clear to 
Sir Charles. If you will give me his address I will 
write to him myself.” 

“ I do not know Sir Charles’ address. I believe he 
has gone to Naples, but he does not wish any letters to 
be forwarded. ” 

“Then I have nothing more to say,” said Mr. 
Latham, “except,” the extreme dryness of his tone 
seemed to suggest, “ that you are the greatest liar in 
Europe.” 

“I am sure I was right,” said the editor, when he 
found himself alone, “though I believe Walden’s 
regard for our friend to be perfectly genuine. But 
there is something strange in his employing this fellow 
as his intermediary. What could he have meant by 
saying that his master’s generosity might be miscon- 
strued by our young friend. That it might be rejected 
is obvious enough; but why misconstrued?” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


THE LAST RESORT. 

T'he day is over, at last, with its painful service, 
nev^er grudged before, in the sick-room. The doctor 
has been, and the matter of the porridge has been once 
more discussed. He is still of opinion that it should 
be persisted in, but if the invalid’s dislike of it con- 
tinues a strong soup is to be substituted, which “ the best 
of husbands” undertakes to administer to his Popsey 
with his own hands. As he brings her the porridge 
again (of which she takes a few spoonsful with loathing) 
Ruth marvels to see them so white and clean. So 
highly wrought and abnormal is her nervous condition 
that she looks for blood upon them. She notes, how- 
ever, keenly enough, that dearest Robert” never 
suffers the cup to leave his hands, and takes it, with 
what is left, away with him. In other matters he is not 
so careful to save trouble. It is surely impossible that 
she has awakened suspicion. Yet Uncle Robert speaks 
to her with unwonted gentleness, remarks on her 
wearied and anxious looks, and drops a hint that it may 
be necessary to send her somewhere for a few days to 
recruit her health. She finds herself assenting with a 
smile that seems to tear her cheek; and he pats it — and 
she bears even that — with approbation, and wishes his 
Popsey were as sensible. 

This nightmare of the day is worse than that of the 
299 


300 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


night; but the night is hideous. When exhaustion 
compels her to sleep, the story of the day goes on, and 
she wakes with a cry of ‘‘ Murder!” The innocent morn 
breaks with song of bird and scent of flower; the sun 
kisses the gray lake and makes it young again; but 
freshness and beauty have lost their charms for her. 
She sits at the open window, and sees nothing but the 
winding road, along which no messenger can come for 
hours. Yet if she missed him — if by any chance the 
note he bears should fall into other hands — his hands! 
That idea is terrible. She grudges every glance that 
is cast elsewhere. The breakfast the maid brings up 
to her — for to descend and meet the eyes and answer 
the questions of her relatives is now beyond her power 
— lies untasted on the table. But she knows all that 
man can do Mr. Percy has done ; that urgency has been 
insisted upon ; secrecy maintained. He is a friend in 
whom she can trust. But for that perfect confidence 
Miss Ruth must have lost her wits. 

Her door is locked, and when Mrs. Merridew comes 
to ask after her she replies as if from her bed. She 
can see no one, think of no one, except that unknown 
messenger. It is like waiting for death. At last he 
comes: a man upon the black cob which is never ridden 
by any but his master, but which has for once been 
intrusted to another. It is early in the afternoon, but 
she runs unbonneted down a little staircase that leads 
to a side door, and out into the blinding sunshine. 
This is foolish of her, because it may cause comment ; 
but she dare not return for head-gear. As the messenger 
draws nigh, she pretends to be gathering flowers, and 
as he nears her looks up, as if with curiosity, shading 
her eyes with her trembling hand. He draws rein at 


THE LAST RESORT. 


301 


once, and with a satisfied air, like one who fulfils a mis- 
sion with unexpected facility, says, ‘‘Miss Stratton, 
I believe. Master has bidden me give this letter into 
your own hand.” She takes out her scanty purse, and 
though she feels inclined to empty its whole contents 
into his hand, gives him but half a crown. 

Her fear is he will put up his horse for a rest, as the 
custom is with a friend’s groom, and have a chat with 
the servants ; but Mr. Percy has thought of that. The 
man has orders to leave another letter at another coun- 
try house by one o’clock, where better ale is also to be 
got than is brewed at Hillsland Hall. The groom, well 
pleased, touches his hat, turns round and gallops off, as 
unconscious of the importance of the message he has 
brought as any postman. She crumples up the note in 
her hand and flies back to her room. The meeting she 
has looked forward to with such anxious impatience for 
four and twenty hours has not taken two minutes. 
But it is sometime before she opens the note. She has 
fallen on her knees first and prayed to her Heavenly 
Father that he might see fit to prove her awful sus- 
picions baseless. He does not see fit. The note is but 
a slip of paper, signed by the public analyst : “ The por- 
ridge contains antimony, a slow poison.” 

There was not one word beside ; but she had made 
up her mind, as she fiad told Mr. Percy, what to do in 
case this very thing should come to pass, and he had 
had confidence in her judgment and left her to do it. 
It was well that there was no need for consideration 
now, for there was no time to spare for plan-making, 
nor had she any longer the head fcr it. It was clear 
enough, but — like a weapon apt for striking, but use- 
less for defenee — it was fit for action only. She sat 


302 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


down, however, and wrote these few lines in a firm 
hand : 

“ It has been discovered that you have been attempting 
to murder your wife by poison. The porridge made by 
your own hand, and offered by it to her yesterday, was not 
thrown away, as you were told. It has been sent to the 
public analyst, and he has found antimony in it. You will 
be given twelve hours exactly from the moment that you 
have read this. Then the law will take its course.” 

She placed this in an envelope, directed it to her 
uncle, and then put it in her bosom. It must be given 
to him with her own hands. Even without that he 
would have known from whom it came by her hand- 
writing; but she wished him to know. There was per- 
sonal danger to herself in such an act. There was no 
knowing to what extremity rage and despair might 
drive him. But that consideration never crossed her 
mind. 

Luncheon was already over, and she found that her 
uncle had been making inquiries about her, and was 
present at it. It was her desire to see him alone, but 
she found this difficult. He remained in his father’s 
room, occupied, it was said, with business matters ; and 
then he went out of doors, without, as was his wont, 
first paying a visit to the sick-room. It seemed as 
though; warned by some instinct of danger, such as wild 
beasts possess, he was purposely avoiding her. It was 
fortunate for him that the time that was to be allowed 
for his escape had been left in her own hands (she had 
not the least doubt that he would use it as was intended, 
and not brave the matter out) ; had the twelve hours 
dated from the moment Mr. Percy had known the 
Worst, the man would have had small chance, indeed. 


THE LAST RESORT. 303 

Ruth had been with the invalid the whole afternoon, 
awaiting him, and it was almost evening when she 
heard his step in the passage. She passed quickly 
through the anteroom, and stopped him as he stood on 
the threshold with the cup in his hand — just as had 
happened before. But this time there was something 
in her look that alarmed him, and as though fearing 
she would take the cup he mechanically withheld it 
from her. 

“Put it down,” she said, pointing to a little table 
that had stood outside the room since his wife had been 
taken ill, to hold trays and phials. “ Here is a letter 
for you.” 

“A letter?” he stammered. 

“Read it.” As she spoke the words she did not 
recognize her own voice. Then she added: “Go!” the 
resonant word seemed to echo in the long gallery, and 
to be taken up again in the great hall on to which it 
looked. She closed the door upon him — in his face — 
and shut him out forever. She listened, but though 
she heard no footsteps she felt that he was no longer 
there — sure as though she had seen his livid and fear- 
stricken face that he had read the letter and slunk 
away: that she had done with him. 

Time went on, but there was no inquiry about him. 
Only one person was likely to inquire. The sick 
woman had done so an hour or two ago, finding him 
later than usual; but, not altogether sorry, perhaps, 
that the loathsome nourishment he brought with him 
was delayed, she had dropped asleep. She looked 
worse than she had ever looked, so far as health was 
concerned, but otherwise more comely. Exhaustion 
and want of sustenance had given her a delicate appear- 


304 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


ance and idealized such attractions as she possessed. 
In Ruth she awoke an unspeakable compassion when 
in a faint voice she presently asked, “ Where is dear 
Robert?” The girl was unable to reply. Her tongue 
clove to the roof of her mouth. Mrs, Merridew, who 
was in the room", exclaimed: 

'‘I can’t think, I’m sure,” with unwonted irritation. 
“ I’ll go out and inquire where he is.” 

She had not gone long, and came back with a cheer- 
ful face. “ He will be here very shortly, my dear.” 

Ruth’s heart sank within her. He was going to brave 
it out, then, after all. But as Popsey, with knitted 
brow, turned her wan face to the wall with a sigh of 
impatience, Mrs. Merridew whispered in her niece’s 
ear, It is very strange, but they tell me that your 
uncle has gone to bathe in the lake. John saw him 
going there with a towel in his hand. It is so late for 
bathing. What is the matter, Ruth? You look as 
white as a sheet.” 

“ My headache has come on again. I am afraid I 
must go back to my room. ” 

Ruth knew at once what was about to happen — prob- 
ably, indeed, had happened. It horrified her, of course ; 
she felt the shock in every fibre of her frame. But if 
she could have averted the catastrophe she would not 
have done it. It was better that this sinful wretch 
should fall into God’s hands than into man’s. 

If allowance bould be made for him, he would make 
it, as it would be made by no earthly tribunal. Ruth 
'was a woman, and a very broken-hearted one, but 
from the milk-and-water sentiment that weeps over 
ruthless ruffians, and ignores their victims, she was 
free. She had confidence in the All-Wise. She did 


THE LAST RESORT. 


305 


not believe that a soul is lost because it is “hurried 
into eternity/' whether by ns own act or another’s. 

It was a terrible alternative, no doubt, but it was 
better so, not only for the man himself, but — what was 
of greatly more consequence — for the innocent and 
unsuspecting woman he had plotted to destroy, and for 
the family on whom his earthly punishment would 
have brought shame and ruin. It might even be said 
that Robert Stratton’s end became him as nothing in 
his life had done. It was a crime, but one that was 
calculated to benefit his fellow-creatures. His leaving 
the world had been a legacy of good to it, while his 
remaining in it would have been the source of wide- 
spread and insupportable misery. To the eyes of com- 
mon sense — though it was not through them that Ruth 
regarded it — it was the very best thing, though only of 
very bad things, that could have happened. She had 
pictured him flying from the hands of justice, residing 
in this or that Alsatia of scoundrelism, appearing and 
disappearing, caught and uncaught, always a menace 
and terror to his unhappy wife and all belonging to 
him. This, at least, would be spared her. 

She sat in her room awaiting the discovery of what 
had happened, like one who had already received a 
telegram and awaited details. She knew what had 
happened as though she had seen it. It was a moon- 
light night, and when the squire did not return they 
sought for him as though it had been day. They 
found his clothes upon the lake shore. In some cases 
this would not have been final. There have been men, 
who have had sufficient reasons for effacing themselves, 
who have made believe to die, and gone away, in hopes 
to begin life again without encumbrance or with im- 
20 


3o6 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


punity from their transgressions; but Robert Stratton, 
or so his niece concluded, was not of this class. He 
was too masterful, too insolent by nature, to endure so 
humiliating a position. Moreover, the lake was not 
the sea. Indeed, before morning dawned the drag-nets 
found him. He was a strong swimmer, but the even- 
ing was chill, and no doubt, thought all the world (save 
two persons), the cramp had seized him. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


NEWS INDEED. 

On the second morning after the catastrophe at 
Hillsland Hall, Lawrence received a letter, but not 
from home. It was a foreign letter. The handwrit- 
ing on it was familiar enough, but its postmark, “ Na- 
ples,’' astonished him not a little. What on earth 
could have taken Kitty Salesby to Naples? It had no 
address on it, and was without its usual beginning: 
there was no “Dear Lawrence,” nor even “Dear Mr. 
Merridew,” which, indeed, would have been almost as 
strange as none. It might have been a memorandum. 

“ When you have received this, it will be the last time 
that you will hear from me, and, as I would hope, hear 
vainly of me. I shall be dead to you and. what is worse, 
disgraced. If you think of me at all — and it is better not — 
you need not think of me as being as miserable as I deserve 
to be. If I am not happy I never expected 'to be so, and I 
am not less so than I should have been had I been your 
wife. My future is secured. There are many women who, 
with the man they love, could patiently endure all the 
stings and sorrows of poverty. This is not my case. You 
will say, ‘Then, what can. such a woman’s love be worth?’ 
And you will be quite right. You are loved by a far 
worthier woman. I pray — no I dare not do that: I hope 
and believe — that you will be happy with her. All that I 
ask is that you will never speak to her of me when she has 
become your wife. It is strange that one like me should 

307 


3o8 a modern dick Whittington. 

shrink from what is said of me, but I do shrink from that. 
Spare me for the sake of old times, and also for the sake 
of them, forget me.” 

This, then, was the reason why for days he had not 
heard from Hillsland. Kitty had fled from her home ; 
under what circumstances it was only too easy to 
guess at — -but with whom? She had always been reti- 
cent to him concerning her own affairs. He was not 
even aware that she had an acquaintance outside her 
own sphere of life or her immediate neighborhood. 
The hints she had dropped to him from time to time of 
her liking for luxury and wealth had seemed to him to 
be of the most abstract kind. That she should have 
had any particular design in her mind with respect to 
any individual had never entered his head. If she had 
married a rich man, he could have borne it. She had 
frankly told him — as, indeed, she now repeated — that 
his love would not reconcile her to the endurance of 
poverty. But that she should have preferred a life of 
gilded shame to the humble, but honest livelihood his 
love could have provided for her, was wormwood to 
him. 

. His affections were not so much wounded as his 
amour pr opr e. He felt not only injured, but insulted. 
What, if he had been writing of another person, as a 
professional story-teller, he would have described as 
very significant of his state of mind: he felt Kitty’s 
reference to his cousin as an Insult, What right had 
a woman who had so disgraced herself to express an 
opinion, even in the way of commendation, of a girl 
like Ruth? Of course, she was a worthless woman; but 
the statement from such lips was, to say the least of it, 


NEWS INDEED. 


309 

an impertinence. Those lips, however, had not so far 
as he was concerned, been forsworn. She had never 
promised to marry him, though he was sure she had 
at one time loved him. Was it the eyes of that love — 
of jealous love — that had recognized what he had been 
blind to: that Ruth herself loved him! And had they 
seen aright? That he found himself thinking of that 
matter was also very significant. 

It often happens that when a gentleman is thrown, 
over by lady No. i, he is induced by pique to turn 
an occasional glance in the direction of lady No. 2. 
He is not very particular about the existence of much 
previous affection. But in this case there was a young 
lady who had been always Np. 2, and only second in his 
regard to No. i. If he had not been a fool. Sir Charles 
had hinted to him more than once, Ruth woucd have 
been his No. i. The baronet had, as we know, ex- 
pressed the opinion that Ruth was every way, even in 
beauty, Kitty’s superior, while pointing out to him the 
folly and impracticability of his passion for Kitty. 
And Sir Charles was certainly a good judge of his fel- 
low-creatures, especially the female portion of them. 
How he would smile when he came to hear of this 
termination of his “love affair, ” as he had always 
somewhat contemptuously termed it. Not that he would 
not be sorry for the poor girl, for he was a kind-hearted 
fellow; but it would corroborate the opinion he had 
always had of her unsuitability for his young friend, 
and we all like our sagacity proved by demonstration 

Lawrence felt that his next interview with that 
Patron of Letters, as Mr. Latham called him, would be 
very embarrassing. That he should have thought of 
Sir Charles at all, under such circumstances, showed 


310 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON 


that he was not so very hard hit — that his anger was at 
least as strong as his sense of loss; but he did think 
about him, and also, and much more, of Ruth. It struck 
him for the first time that he had not been so grateful 
to her as he ought to have been for the countless kind- 
nesses she had done him. He had taken them too 
much as a matter of course. He had entertained, it is 
true, the very highest opinion of her, and had been 
intensely indignant at the idea of Sir Charles paying 
court to her. That had been rather a dog-in-the-manger 
feeling, had it not? Well, he was not now quite so 
sure of that. There was one sentence in Kitty's letter, 
which^ while on the one hand it gave him satisfaction, 
on the other disgusted him more than all the rest. It 
seemed to have been interpolated into the epistle, and 
was out of harmony with the remainder. It might 
have been written for his comfort, and upon the whole 
bethought it was; but it might have been the naive 
and unconscious expression of self-content : My future 
is provided for.'" This did away with much of the ap- 
prehension he would otherwise have entertained on 
her account, but with it much of the bitterness and sor- 
row. How absolutely impossible was it that under 
similar circumstances his cousin would have so ex- 
pressed herself. Thus his reflection continued, flying 
from Ruth to Kitty, from Kitty to Ruth, but always 
with a tendency — as a “homing’' pigeon can only with 
difficulty be taught to fly both ways — to remain with 
the latter. If that result had been Kitty’s object, she 
had succeeded. Work for The Areopagus was utterly out 
of the question that morning, and even The Penny Trum- 
pet went without its usual “ copy. ” 

He threw down his pen as he seldom did, however 


NEWS INDEED. 


311 

indisposed for intellectual exertion, and took his way 
to Nelson Crescent. He was in a frame of mind — de- 
pressed. dissatisfied with himself, in trouble — when the 
society of kindly, honest gentlewomen is especially at- 
tractive. He had not the least intention of making 
confidantes of either Miss Latham, but the knowledge 
of the existence of sympathy, even if not asked, is com- 
forting ; and Lawrence Merridew in heart, as indeed in 
years, was still little more than a boy. As he entered 
the house, the door of Mr. Latham’s sanctum, always 
inviolate to callers in the morning, was opened by that 
gentleman himself. 

“Come in, Lawrence,” he said “I want to have a 
few words with you.” 

The editor was always kindly to the young fellow, 
but it was the first time, Merridew noticed, he had called 
him by his Christian name In his voice, too, there 
was a gentle gravity that did not escape the latter’s ear. 
If his literary talents were but moderate, Lawrence Mer- 
ridew had the faculty of observation highly developed. 

“Sit down and take a cigar: there is nothing like 
tobacco for putting a man at ease both with himself and 
his friend. ” 

“ I am always at ease with you, Mr. Latham. If too 
much so, it must be laid to the door of your own kind- 
ness. ’ 

“That is nicely said. I don’t wonder at Sir Charles 
liking you. All generous natures exaggerate little ser- 
vices ; and when you say a gracious thing, you mean it, 
which is deuced rare. We are friends, as you say, and 
I am about to take the liberty of a friend. I want to 
know how you are getting on in the world — exactly.'- 
You make your own living, of course?” 


312 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


“Oh, yes. I have even put something by; so small 
that it is not worth mentioning. But I make more one 
week almost always than the week before. Some peo- 
ple might call it hard work, but it is a labor of love. 
I am never so happy as when I have my pen in my 
hand, though what it writes is, I dare say, often very 
bad stuff.” 

“ It does vary,” said Mr. Latham comically. 

“I hope so,” returned Lawrence, with an answering 
smile. “ Sometimes my highest aspiration is that in 
the revolving years I may one day write a successful 
shilling shocker.” 

“That is modest, at all events,” 

“Yes but depressing. On the other hand, I smne- 
times feel as if I had really some good stuff in me ; but 
for that But you know all about it.” 

“ I know something about it. But goon; you arc 
always frank, and yet I see you have something on 
your mind. If it is anything about your work, let me 
hear it.” 

Here, it struck Lawrence, was an opportunity to make 
a clean breast of it, as respected The Areopagus. If his 
conversation with Mrs. Martyn should ever come to Mr. 
Latham’s ears, he felt it would annoy him exceedingly, 
but it was such a delicate subject. 

“ It is nothing about my work.” 

“ Well, then I will say what I have got to say. What 
would be your reply if somebody was to offer you^iooo 
for one written volume, the subject to be selected by 
yourself?” 

“ I should say he was playing a very poor joke 
upon me. ” 

“ But if he was serious in his offer?” 


NEWS INDEED. 


313 


Then I should say that, under the transparent pre- 
tence of buying a book of me, he was giving me 

;^IOOO. ” 

•‘Well?’' 

“ In that case I hope — indeed, I am quite sure — that 
I would not take it. I should be making a very good 
bargain, but at the cost of my self-respect. If you are 
really serious, Mr. Latham, such a proposition can have 
been made only by one man. It is prompted, no doubt 
by the noblest generosity but I had hoped from what 

he knew of me ” The color rose to the young 

man’s cheeks, his eyes were full of tears. That amour 
propre of his, of which he had a great and indeed un- 
usual supply, was wounded for the second time that 
morning. 

“ Then we will say no more about it, ” said Mr. Latham 
kindly. 

“ But, indeed, sir, I should like to have something 
said — to Sir Charles I mean. I will write myself to 
Hurlby.” 

“ No, no; let the matter drop. It was only a tenta- 
tive experiment and I am glad it has resulted as it has 
done. I felt that it would be so. It will not be re- 
peated, you may be quite sure. And it is no use your 
writing to Hurlby, for Walden has gone abroad — to 
Naples, I believe; but he has left no address.” 

^‘To Naples!” repeated Lawrence in a low, hoarse 
voice. “ Great heavens ! Then it is he who is the 
villain. ” 

“ The villain ! Well, really — of all the names — what 
the deuce is the matter with you, my poor boy?” 

“Oh, nothing, sir,” replied the lad, with a feeble 
smile and speaking with exceeding bitterness. “ I have 


314 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


only lost a friend — or found the difference between a 
friend and a patron. He has seduced a girl in our village 
for whom he knew I had a regard, and gone away with 
her; and now he offers me a thousand pounds as a 
solatium. It was well done, indeed, and like a gentle- 
man. 

Mr. Latham looked very distressed and embarrassed. 
“ This is sad news, Lawrence. If it be true, I have 
nothing to say except that Sir Charles Walden was at 
one time my friend ; and I am quite sure your friend : 
that he had no other motive, certainly no mean one, 
for the interest he took in you, save a genuine regard.” 

“I believe that — I feel that,” answered Lawrence 
slowly, “ and that is what makes it so much the worse 
for 7ne. There is nothing, as you say, to be said of this 
man; no sort of excuse, no palliation. I have done 
with him. All that remains is to rid myself of all that 
is possible in the way of obligation. You know more 
about this than I do. I suspect — even as regards The 
Areopagus ” 

“There is no need to suspect anything,” put in Mr. 
Latham quickly. “ I will make a clean breast of it. 
Walden wrote to me to help you by whatever means I 
could. He suggested that I might pay you a little 
higher for your contributions than I should perhaps 
have done upon their merits. It was wrong of me ; I 
feel that now. The difference was, after all, but small, 
and your contributions have been very few. It is not 
worth thinking about.” 

“ I should like to know — exactly, if you please — what 
the difference was,” said Lawrence. “It must be re- 
turned to him.” 

“ That shall be done ; only remember that hence- 


NEWS INDEED. 


315 

forth, if you cease to offer me any articles, I shall con- 
clude you have not forgiven me. If our business 
relations close — in which there will certainly be no 
favoritism — it will interfere with our friendship.” 

“You are very good to me, Mr. Latham.” 

“ If I am, it is from the angelic character of m}^ dis- 
position, and not because I owe you any compensation ; 
fix that in your mind, please, and let us have done with 
this disagreeable subject. Something has occurred of 
far more importance, and which affects you very nearly. 
You have not, I ^suppose, read the newspapers this 
morning. Well, there is something in them concerning 
a relative of yours. It is bad news. Your mother 
writes to me ” 

“ Nothing has happened to Ruth?” exclaimed Law- 
rence, with feverish anxiety. 

“ No,” said Latham ; “ I don’t think your gentle emo- 
tions, from what you have told me, will be severely 
tried by the occurrence ; but your uncle Robert is 
dead.” 


CHAPTER XL. 


WISE AT LAST. 

There is a general impression in the world that when 
a man is dead all that was evil in him is, among persons 
of charitable disposition at least, forgotten as well as 
forgiven ; that de mortuis nil nisi bonum applies not only 
to the speech of his fellow-creatures — or at least the 
worthier portion of them — but to their thought. 

There is nothing more false than this idea, which is, 
moreover, ridiculous. Memory is not destroyed in us 
by the death of another, though it may temper our judg- 
ment with mercy. In the case of Robert Stratton, the 
Latin proverb would have been difficult, indeed, to work 
out in practice, from the complete absence of the bonum 
in his character. The nearest approach to it was to 
keep silence. Lawrence Merridew was of a kindly 
disposition, certainly not of a revengeful one, but the 
lines of the French poet, with reference to the tomb, 
would have applied to him — 

Rien jusqu’ici pour suivre une memoire — 

Rien excepte la Verite; 

and the truth was not to be spoken. 

“Robert dead!” he said. “ How did that happen?” 
For not having heard of his being ill, he naturally 
ascribed his decease to accident. 

“ He was drowned in the lake while bathing.” 

316 


WISE AT LAST. 


317 


Good heavens!” Even this expression of sorrowful 
amazement was not, it seemed, evoked by the occur- 
repce, for he immediately said: “ How dreadful it will 
be for my poor mother and Ruth to be left with Aunt 
Jane.” 

“It is not that reflection, let us hope,” said Mr. 
Latham, “that caused your mother to take the step she 
has done ; though, on another account, one might almost 
wish it were. The fact is, your cousin Ruth has been 
seriously affected — upset, I suppose, as she well might 
be — by this painful catastrophe.” 

“ I will go down to Hillsland at once,” said Lawrence, 
rising from his chair. 

“ That is unnecessary, my good fellow, for your mother 
is bringing your cousin up with her to town. The doc- 
tor has insisted on it. They will arrive this very 
evening.” 

“And they don’t write me one word about it!” said 
Lawrence, in an injured voice. 

“We must not think about ourselves,” observed Mr. 
Latham gently, “when one’s dear ones are in trouble. 
Your mother had no doubt her reasons for writing to 
us, for my sister has also got a letter from her. It was 
probably to save time, of which there was none to lose : 
and of course she knew I should communicate with you. ” 

“They will come, of course, to my lodgings at once,” 
exclaimed the young fellow excitedly. " “ There are 
two rooms there to let. They will live with me. I 
will work for them as no man has worked before. 
Poverty will have no terrors for them compared with 
what they have suffered. Poor as the fare will be that 
I may give them, it will not be so bitter as the bread of 
dependence.” 


3i8 a modern dick Whittington. 

Mr. Latham smiled, for the young fellow not only 
looked confidence itself in his powers to maintain his 
relations, but also exceedingly happy. 

‘‘ I am afraid your hospitality cannot just at present 
be accepted. Your cousin will require a good deal of 
attention and comforts such as she would hardly find 
at Mrs. Levison’s. Your mother has told my sisters 
the sort of lodging — ‘the more permanent, or likely to 
be permanent,’ she says, ‘the better ’ — she will require, 
and they are gone out to look for them.” 

“ That is like their kindness — but — well, I am sure 
they will understand that it is only the urgency of the 
case which has caused my mother to encroach upon it. ” 

“Encroach? Why, it’s the sort of errand they both 
delight in. They will increase their information about 
their neighbors, patronize them, order things from the 
shops — it’s their notion of a liberal education. It’s a 
compliment, too, for it shows you have given her a 
good account of their judgment.” 

“ My only fear is that my dear mother, who has had 
nothing to do with housekeeping for years, may overrate 
hen resources. For the present, of course, my cousin’s 
health is the one thing to be considered. As to perma- 
nency, I fear ” 

“ My dear Lawrence, you are a very clever fallow,” 
interrupted Mr. Latham, smiling, “but I don’t think 
you understand these matters as well as my sisters. 
They will cut their coat according to the cloth, of the 
dimensions of which they have had full instructions. 
We will let you know where your folk are to be found 
this evening. They will be met at the station, of 
course, but not by you; your cousin’s condition precludes 
the display of emotion in public — and I wish everybody 


WISE AT LAST. 


319 


else’s condition did. And now my advice to you is to 
go home and do a good day’s work; it is the best 
panacea for troubles and anxieties of all kinds, and in 
your case should be an earnest of your future. If you 
can’t use your pen because you are not happy in your 
mind, you should not have entered the literary call- 
ing.” 

There was an authority in Mr. Latham’s tone, such as 
he had never used before, and the good sense of his 
advice was undeniable. 

Lawrence went back to his lodgings, and after a 
severe struggle got interested in his theme : a small 
matter it may be thought — or possibly even a discredit- 
able one — but his success was, in fact, a matter of 
great importance. For, as the editor had hinted, if a 
man who means to live by his pen has not the power of 
putting away sorrow or joy — nay, even anxiety and 
despair itself, from his heart, or at all events from his 
head — when work demands it, he had better give up 
his calling at once, for he has proved himself unfitted 
for it. Lawrence Worked with a will, and the thought 
that he was working for others gave a spur to his 
exertions. 

At six o’clock word came to him that his people had 
arrived in Cheshunt Street, a locality midway between 
his lodgings and Nelson Crescent. Full as his mind 
was of the coming meeting, he noticed as he stood at 
the door that the house was a large one, and had fiowers 
in the windows, which is not usual at that end of the 
town; and it gave him pleasure, for he felt that to 
country eyes this would be a welcome. 

His mother received him with open arms and many 
tears. 


320 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


“ We have been in great trouble, as you know, Lorry. 
What has happened shocked us all, of course, but it 
has affected dear Ruth in a manner we did not expect ; 
we had no idea she was so emotional. I am afraid that 
this evening she is too utterly fatigued and worn out 
to see you. Don’t look so disappointed, my darling,” 
for his face had lengthened considerably, “ at having 
only your poor old mother to talk to.” 

Lawrence responded in a manner that soon procured 
his forgiveness; and indeed his heart had smitten him. 
The young fellow, with all his^^ fancies,” as she termed 
what was unintelligible to her in him, she was well 
aware dearly loved her, and was remorseful enough at 
the bare thought of having wounded her. She told 
him the whole story of what had happened at Hillsland 
(so far as she knew it .) The poor widow, who seemed, 
so far as her ailment was concerned, no worse, kept 
murmuring to herself, “ The best of husbands, the best 
of husbands.” Ruth could not bear to hear it. Of 
course, it would have been her duty then in such cir- 
cumstances to stay by the invalid, especially as Jane’s 
ministrations were not welcome to her; but they had 
left her perforce. Moreover, two of Mrs. Robert’s 
sisters had been telegraphed for, and were to arrive 
that day. The doctor had resolutely insisted upon 
Ruth’s immediate departure from the scene of the 
catastrophe. ” 

“ A wise resolve,” put in Lawrence ; “ but from what 
I remember of the man I wonder he had the good sense 
— and, indeed, the courage, in the face of Aunt Jane — 
to propose it.” 

‘‘Oh, but Jane was not averse, ’’said Mrs. Merridew, 
naively. “ As her sisters-in-law were coming, we 


WISE AT LAST. 


321 


were not indispensable. Indeed, I think she was rather 
pleased to get rid of us.’' 

“Then I applaud her for the first time in my life,” 
said Lawrence gravely; “but especially the doctor.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Merridew, hesitating; and with a 
little flush, “there was somebody behind him who I 
fancy suggested the idea, and certainly advocated it 
very strongly— Mr. Percy.” 

“ Mr. Percy? Oh, how good of him — and how like 
him — to come to you in your trouble!” 

“Yes; he was with us the whole day — indeed, both 
days. He took everything on his shoulders, for you 
know what your poor grandfather is — how little fitted 
for domestic emergencies.” 

“/know,” said Lawrence, in no very appreciative 
tone. 

“ So Mr. Percy was invaluable. He took a particular 
interest in dear Ruth, and not only planned our depar- 
ture, but suggested our writing to Miss Latham.” 

“ And M7\ Latham,” added Lawrence, in a reproach- 
ful tone, “ Why was it not I who was written to?” 

“Well, we had so little time, dear,” said his mother 
confusedly; “ and there were matters of business — and 
business is not in your way, you know.” 

On ordinary occasions the young fellow might have 
taken this for a compliment. Not to be a man of busi- 
ness being half-way, as some suppose to being a 
man of letters ; but he was not pleased at his help or 
advice not being asked. It seemed like treating him 
like a boy. 

Mrs. Merridew was distressed to see him hurt, but 
not sorry that his sense of wrong prevented him from 
further inquiry into this matter. She was, in fact, 
21 


322 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


using a certain duplicity — of course, for his own good. 
But she was not an adept at frauds, even pious frauds. 
As hens will fight with hawks for the sake of their 
little ones, so will mothers undertake, for their chil- 
dren’s sake, rdles for which nature has not designed 
them. She had a little secret confided to her, but was 
not without a well-grounded apprehension that it might 
be worried out of her, or indeed that she might herself 
have disclosed it. She was therefore glad that her 
Lawrence was too “ huffy” about those business matters 
to be inquisitive. 

When he came the next afternoon to Cheshunt Street 
by appointment, he had quite got over that little sore- 
ness — was, to do him justice, not thinking of himself 
at all, but looking forward to his meeting with his 
cousin with no little embarrassment and confusion. 
He had been thinking of her a good deal in the in- 
terim, and “ putting two and two together ” with a very 
decided inclination to join one and one. How was it 
possible he could have been such a fool as to have 
been blind — well, to her merits, but especially to one 
of them, that steadfast and faithful regard for him 
which she had shown in a hundred ways? How un- 
grateful he had been to her! How she had pleaded 
for him in vain with his persecutors as a child; how 
she Jiad stood by him against them when he was a boy, 
and mitigated b)^ her sympathy the evils she could not 
avert! How she had for his sake admitted Sir Charles 
Walden to terms of intimacy, and aided his interest in 
him by her gracious influence! This had caused even 
Mr. Percy, he remembered, to couple her name with 
that of the baronet in a fashion that had then aroused 


WISE AT LAST. 


323 


his indignation, but now filled him with shame. And 
then, the thought of Kitty! which was the worst thought 
of all. It would only serve him right, and be the natural 
result of his idiotic conduct, if Ruth had learnt to forget 
him. 

Bnt Ruth seemed to remember him quite well. She 
had risen at mid-day, it appeared, though still very 
weak and tottering, especially to receive him in the 
drawing-room. Her withdrawal from the scene where 
she had played so prominent, though unsought, a part 
had already benefited her, notwithstanding the physical 
fatigue of her long journey; her excessive nervousness 
had disappeared, and though her black attire heightened 
the delicacy of her appearance, he thought he had 
never seen her looking so lovely. She held out both her 
hands to him from the sofa without the slightest trace 
of embarrassment, and when, moved by an uncontrolled 
impulse, he stooped down and kissed her forehead, she 
took it as the most natural thing in the world, a circum- 
stance that made him very wretched. Of course she 
looked upon him as a cousin, or at the best a brother, 
and had no reason to feel astonishment. Neither of 
them referred to the cause that had brought them so 
unexpectedly together — Ruth, because the subject was 
hateful to her, and he, because it was of very small 
consequence compared with that which was in his mind. 
They spoke of Mr. Percy, a topic on which we may be 
sure they had but one opinion. Ruth's rapturous praise 
of him, though caused by circumstances of which he 
was wholly ignorant, excited in him no astonishment 
— first, because he had the greatest regard for his old 
tutor; secondly, because he blessed him for the advice 


324 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

that had sent his cousin up to town ; and, thirdly, be- 
cause nothing she could have said would have seemed 
other than exactly just and fitting. 

She asked him about his literary affairs, and he 
painted them in rose-color, for everything seemed to 
take that tint in her sympathizing presence. Speaking 
of his own talents with unaccustomed modesty, he 
dwelt upon his capacity for work and the delight he 
took in it. “While admitting,” he said, “the imfnense 
assistance I have received from Mr. Latham ” 

“That was thanks to Sir Charles; we must not forget 
our magnificent friend,” she put in with a touch of 
reproach because he had not mentioned him. This 
was a terrible reminder, and chilled poor Lawrence’s 
enthusiasm very much. 

“ I have reason to hope, however, that Mr, Latham 
now likes me on my own account.” 

“That is clear, my dear Lorry,” she answered; “but 
we must not forget old friends. However, you tell me 
that you now feel confident of being able to make your 
own way.” 

“ I do, though of course it is but a small way. My 
mother and you will, of course, come and live with me, 
and I shall at least be able to keep the wolf from our 
door.” 

“ Then you propose to keep us as well as yourself 
by your pen?” she inquired softly, gazing at the floor 
lest he should see the unbidden tears that filled her 
eyes. 

“Well, of course. That is what I always had in 
view. How could it be otherwise? It is only that 
matters have been precipitated, for which I am truly 
thankful. Do you think that having you near me. 


WISE AT LAST. 


325 


•under the same roof, seeing you every day, hearing the 
sweet voice that has always been m}" greatest encour- 
agement, will not be reward enough for a little extra 
work. Even if one is not idle, to live all alone with 
none to love one, is — is — well, it is not like t/iis.” 

No; it was certainly not like that. Her hand had 
somehow fallen into his, and he held it close. His 
voice was tremulous with passion, and though her 
own was silent, it was with the silence of assent. 

^‘You must not think me selfish, darling,” he went on, 
“though it zs selfish. You must not think me mad, 
though others will, if I dare to ask that some day — a 
long way off, when I shall have found myself capable 
of supporting you in some comfort — you will let me call 
you my very own. Do you love me, just a little, little 
bit?” 

“Now this will not do!” Mrs. Merridew, who from 
an unfortunate habit acquired in her attendance on 
Popse}^ had got into the way of entering a room with- 
out noise. “ I will not have Ruth upset, Lawrence, or 
made miserable by anybody.” 

Ruth managed to say, though in a rather low and tear- 
ful voice, that so far from being miserable she was ex- 
ceedingly content with her lot in life. 

Mrs. Merridew cast one sharp glance at the young 
people, and replied, very unexpectedly, “ And so you 
ought to be,” then added, much to her son’s relief, “ I 
am sure these lodgings are all we could wish for, and 
much better than we could have expected. Your 
friend. Miss Latham, is a dear, and has got us quite 
what we wanted, don’t you think so. Lorry?” 

“ I think they are very nice rooms, though not a bit 
nicer than Ruth — and you — deserve,” he said. 


326 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

“ But they strike you, no doubt, as Mr. Latham (and 
he is a dear, also) thoug-ht they would, as a little too 
expensive. ” 

“ I never thought anything of the kind,” cried Law- 
rence, with a quick flush. Mr. Latham had no 
right ” 

“ I will not have Lawrence teased or kept in the 
dark any longer, Aunt,” exclaimed Ruth, with indig- 
nation. “ He has been telling me how he intends to 
work his fingers to the bone, and rack his brain, that 
you and I may be kept in comfort,” she went on. “ Mr. 
Latham has told us, but we knew it all before — did we 
not?” 

“Yes, I knew I had a good son,” said Mrs. Merridew, 
intending to be heroic and philosophic, but crying 
very much, and looking much more like a British 
mother than a Roman one. 

“A very wilful son, I am afraid,” said Lawrence. 

“You’re a dear!” said Mrs. Merridew, embracing 
him — “a dear. Tell him all about it, Ruth, for I can’t, 
and that’s flat. ” 

Mrs. Merridew had certainly not the talent for 
diplomacy, nor even, as it seemed, the art of “ break- 
ing” things which her niece had exhibited. 

“Well, the fact is. Lorry dear,” said Ruth, “that 
our good friend Mr. Percy, in addition to all the other 
benefits he has conferred upon your mother and me, has 
found us a fortune. Poor Aunt Jerry, though neither 
he nor she thought she had really anything to leave, left 
a will behind her. It seems, that in obedience to her 
husband’s wishes, she had never parted with certain 
shares in the Common W'heal Mine, that has been shut 
up years, but is now being worked again with the most 


WISE AT LAST. 


327 


astonishing results. These shares, Mr. Percy tells me, 
are worth a great deal of money — more than ten thou- 
sand pounds.’* 

“ And has Aunt Jerry left all that money to mother?” 
exclaimed Lawrence delightedly. 

‘‘Well, to whom else should she leave it?” replied 
Ruth. “ She was not likely to leave it to Aunt Jane, 
nor yet to grandfather, who have plenty of their own.” 

“ Of course not. Nor yet to me,'' observed Lawrence, 
smiling. “ However, I bless her memory with all my 
heart.” 

“And I,” said Ruth fervently. 

“And I,” said Mrs. Merridew. “She was a dear. 
So now you understand why your mother has estab- 
lished herself so luxuriously, and will have no need to 
pinch and screw for the rest of her life.” 

“This is good news, indeed, ” exclaimed Lawrence 
rapturously. “Though I still don’t see,” he added 
reproachfully, “ why I was not made happy by it hours 
ago. Was it to try me? Was it to find out whether I 
was easily discouraged or shrank from the responsi- 
bilities that love and duty equally imposed upon me?” 

“No, it was not,” cried Mrs. Merridew vehemently, 
almost sharply. “ Ruth never doubted you for a mo- 
ment, and I — am I not your own mother?” 

“Thanks, darling,” replied Lawrence, deeply moved. 
“ I am quite satisfied, and do not seek to know any 
further.’* In his heart he thought it was Mr. Percy 
who had shown a want of confidence in him in this 
matter, but he could have forgiven him more than that. 
But it was not Mr. Percy, nor was the young fellow 
admitted even yet to the full possession of the family 
secret. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


all’s well. 

As there was plenty of room in the Cheshimt Street 
house, it was only natural that Lawrence Merridew 
should exchange his quarters for his mother’s roof; 
after which another occurrence became so much more 
natural that it is hardly necessary to mention it. 
Since Lawrence could keep himself, with something 
over, by his "pen, and his income, though absurdly 
small when compared with what we are so often told 
‘-it is impossible to marry upon,” he did not long re- 
main a bachelor. 

The home of the young couple was with his mother, 
with whom Ruth had lived too long on terms of sym- 
pathy and affection to have any of those disagreements 
which perhaps take place between mother-in-law and 
daughter-in-law — more often in fiction than in fact. 
At all events, they never had any. 

It was in some respects an ideal household. Had it 
been far less luxurious, it would have seemed a seventh 
heaven to all three of them, compared with their ex- 
perience of life at Hillsland. What they had was their 
own — not doled out by grudging and unloving hands; 
and every year, as Lawrence’s brain became seasoned 
and his talents recognized, their small but sufficient 
means increased. There was nothing miraculous about 
the matter. To tell the honest truth, though Mrs. 

328 


all’s well. 


329 


Merridew and Ruth were of another opinion, Lawrence 
Merridew was no genius. He was only a clever young 
fellow, with a decided taste for light literature. 
Neither fame nor fortune were within his reach, nor 
did he ever attain to them. But like scores, if not hun- 
dreds, of his fellows, he made in time considerable 
way in the calling he had chosen for himself ; probably 
a larger income than he would have realized in any 
other more recognized and (so-called) safer profession 
for which he had no bent — certainly a much larger one 
than he would have made at Singapore. And then the 
pleasure of it! Of course, there are other callings in 
which men take the utmost personal interest, nay, 
even a delight, and where the gains are far greater; 
but I question whether any can compare, for genuine 
satisfaction, with that of literature, when accompanied 
with moderate success. It is hard work, but somehow 
comes with ease ; it introduces those who follow it to 
charming company. Since they can take it with them 
wherever they go, they can go whither they please; 
and Lawrence took it home where he found most 
pleasure. 

Above all — or what seemed to him above all — k 
requires no patrons. In a humble way — though he 
was not of a humble disposition, which indeed is sel- 
dom found in young gentlemen of letters — he was a 
very happy man. Whether he deserved to be so, is 
for those who have read his history to decide. What is 
of more consequence — to his biographer at all events 
— he made Ruth happ}^ She was the very woman he 
ought to have married. If he had married Kitty, 
they would probably both have gone to the devil, by 
different ways. Ruth with her ‘‘ saving good sense” 


330 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 

supplied what was wanting- in him. There was one 
matter just at first in which, if she had not been over- 
ruled, she would have committed an imprudence, but 
Mr. Percy saw to that. It was in connection with the 
secret, which, as has been said, was not disclosed to 
Lawrence. Nor did he learn it till after he had mar- 
ried her. He found that his signature was necessary 
to a certain deed of settlement by which the sum of 
eleven thousand pounds was secured to his wife. 
“ But this belongs- to my mother,” he said. But he was 
mistaken. 

Aunt Jerry had left these Common Wheal shares to 
Ruth, as Mrs. Merridew had informed Mr. Latham in 
her letter. It was necessary to do so to account for 
what would otherwise have seemed an unreasonable ex- 
travagance in her requirements in the way of lodging; 
and besides, she owed it to him, considering the trouble 
she was giving him, to confide to him these circum- 
stances. Out of this came, strangely enough, Ruth’s 
unexpected readiness to accept her lover’s proposal, 
which, to say the truth, was something of an agreeable 
surprise even to himself. Mr. Latham’s sisters were 
very communicative to the new-comers, and talked to 
them, as was natural, very freely about Lawrence. 
They had never heard a word of Kate vSalesby, and 
always imagined that the tendresse they knew him to 
entertain was for his cousin, and they took it for 
granted that she was aware of it. 

It was no doubt a very welcome piece of news to her 
(nor was it difficult for her to persuade herself that it 
was no news), and scarcely less so to Mrs Merridew, 
the desire of whose heart had always been that Law 
rence’s affections should have turned in that direction, 


all’s well. 


331 


if only, alas! the thing had been practicable, which 
now, by this windfall, it had got to be. On the other 
hand, Mr. Latham at once perceived the injudicions- 
ness of letting Lawrence into the secret. He had had 
too recent an experience of that young gentleman’s 
independence of character and resentment of pecuniary 
favors not to foresee an obstruction to the course of 
true love in the fact of Ruth being thus well provided 
for. Indeed, if the editor had known the whole truth — 
that up to that time Lawrence had not thought of Ruth 
as his wife at all — he would have had very good reasons 
to conceal from Lawrence her accession to fortune. 
He could hardly have made that sudden proposal to 
her on finding she was an heiress. And, even as it 
was, Mr. Latham feared that the young fellow’s false 
pride might interpose between him and happiness. 
Mr. Latham was of an independent nature himself, and 
had secretly very much applauded his young friend’s 
disinclination to take advantage of Sir Charles’s gener- 
ous offer, even before the baronet’s conduct had made 
all obligation impossible. But the present circum- 
stances were wholly different. It seemed monstrous 
to him that an unexpected prosperity should part two 
loving hearts, and what also weighed with him was the 
reflection that a moderate competence was the very 
thing that Lawrence stood in need of. There is a great 
deal of nonsense talked about the matter. Whatever 
objections may be urged against a small independence, 
they apply with greater force against a large one 
(though nobody objects to //lat ) , while it is, at all 
events, greatly preferable to having nothing at all. 

Moreover, it would not, as is generally said of its 
possessors, make Lawrence idle, for he loved his work 


332 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


for its own sake ; and indeed, in literature, of all pro- 
fessions, something to fall back upon in the case of 
illness or ill health is, like learning, ‘‘most excel- 
lent.” 

Mr. Latham was therefore most persistent in advo- 
cating secrecy upon this point, and neither Mrs. Merri- 
dew nor her niece were in a position to oppose this 
view. And thus it happened that Lawrence married 
in ignorance of his having drawn a pecuniary prize in 
Ruth, independently of her own merits. When he had 
done it, he was obliged to put up with that drawback, 
for, fanciful as the reasons for divorce are said to have 
become, nobody has yet put away his wife on the ground 
of her being an heiress. 

There was another secret between the young couple, 
not so directly revealed — indeed, though it was to some 
extent common property, it was seldom alluded to by 
either of them — ^namely, that dead and gone tendresse of 
Master Lawrence for Kitty. I say “ Master Lawrence,” 
because Ruth always spoke of it — whatever she may 
have thought of it — as a mere boyish folly. If there 
was anything serious in it, it was Kitty’s fault, who, it 
had been abundantly manifested, was capable of going 
considerable lengths in flirtation. This was not quite 
Lawrence’s view. They also entertained a difference 
of view as regarded that patron of letters. Sir Charles 
Walden. 

Lawrence could never forgive his conduct with 
respect to Kitty, and indirectly, it must be owned, to 
him^ whereas Ruth persisted in picturing him as more 
or less of a victim, an idea which would have amused 
that gentleman himself exceedingly. Lawrence play- 


all’s well. 


333 


fully attributed this charitable conception of Sir 
Charles’s character to the tender friendship that he 
had once exhibited for Ruth, but as a professed student 
of human nature, it is probable that he privately set it 
down to the right cause. In his heart of hearts, even 
when denouncing him, he never forgot the friendship 
he had shown him, fully recognized it as having been 
genuine, and even secretly acknowledged that but for 
it he might have been at Singapore. 

In this world the very last things that may be expected 
to do so sometimes work together for our good. Law- 
rence saw a good deal of the world in his time, but in 
the picture gallery of his memory Sir Charles Walden 
always remained the most remarkable figure. He 
never saw him again, nor Kitty either. 

This was also the case with his grandfather and Aunt 
Jane. To have met them would have been hardly less 
embarrassing ; and in all senses he could well afford to 
dispense with their acquaintance. 

Lawrence Merridew and his wife had soon plenty of 
friends, though the Lathams and Mr. Percy (who, by- 
the-bye, married them) remained the chief. In any 
case, however, the ex-commissioner (‘‘the Rajah,” the 
“ Satrap”) was not the great man he had been. Not- 
withstanding his horror of gambling, intensified, no 
doubt, by the examination of certain documents of his 
son Robert, which astonished him very much, he fell 
from his pride of place through dabbling in mining 
shares, which did not turn out so well as those which 
had been “stuck to” by Aunt Jerry. He had to leave 
the Hall, and, what was worse, took Aunt Jane with 
him — a person hardly fitted to be a cheerful companion 


334 


A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. 


in adversity. Hillsland knows them no more ; but it 
has a permanent record of one of the family in a very 
handsome monument, erected in the churchyard by his 
sorrowing widow, to that “best of husbands,*' Robert 
Stratton, Esq., J.P., D.L. 


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ledge of horses, and becomes known as “That Pretty 
Little Horsebreaker.” In this, her latest story, Mrs. 
Kennard writes as well as she rides, after saying which 
it is unnecessary to add anything in its praise. 


Published only iiTe “Broadway Sen>jd’ 

BY 

JOHN A. TAYLOR & CO., 

119 POTTER BUILDING, NEW YORK. 


The “Broadway Series’,’ of Copyright Novels. 


Mei Story liy tie Antler of “Jaceli’s Wife.” 


NOW READY, PRICE 50c., 


OR, 

A FALSE POSITION, 

T[fE ^T0I(Y OF HV^TEl^lOO^ JIA^I^IA^E. 


BY 

ADELINE SERGEANT, 

Author of “ Roy’s Repentance,” “ The Great Mill Street Mystery,” 
” No Saint,” etc. 


Miss Sergeant's books find a warm welcome wherever her dra- 
matic and original style is known. Her latest novel is one of her 
best efforts. The Publishers wish to emphasize the fact that 
Sir Anthony^ s Secret is Copyright ^ and is Published 
only in The Broadway Series hy 

dOHN A. TAYbeR 5i GO., 

1 19 POTTER BUILDING, - - NEW YORK. 


The “ Broadway Series” of Copyright Novels. 


SPLENDIDLY ILLUSTRATED. 

^OdlO-pOLlTIdJiL [IOVEL of pEI^Idlill LIFE. 


NOW READY, PRICE 50 CENTS, 

Dollarocracy 

AN ANONYMOUS 

AMERICAN STORY. 


T TESSRS. JOHN A. TAYLOR & CO. are gratified to be able to 
announce their acquisition of the sole right to publish the 
^ above-named semi-satirical novel, the work of a practised but 
(for the nonce) anonymous author. 

“ Dollarocracy ” is the story of a typical American. The hero 
illustrates in his own person the unique qualities and see-saw experi- 
ences of our ambitious public men. He is encircled by troops of 
friends, flatterers and foes, in society, in politics and in the press. 
The portraiture and the ever-varying play of these characters around 
the central figure make up a comedy-drama of daily life as sparkling 
and faithful as anything now current in fiction or on the stage. 


(Sop^rigp and published E]^clu^iVeIg in 

THE “BROADWAY SERIES,” 

BY 

JOHN A. TAYLOR & CO., 


119 POXXER. BUILDING, NEW YORK. 


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flew and Origiijal floVefe 

BY POPdl2AR AdTHeRS. 


GAREFULLY EDITED. D0PYBI6HTED. HANDSOMELY HADE. 

T he ** Broadway Series” and the “ Mayflower Library ” are 
the most attractive and excellent series of high-class 
novels, published in handy form and at popular prices, 
established as an outcome of the new International 
Copyright Law. The publishers hold exclusive rights in their 
books, which can be had in no other editions. 

The “ Broadway ” and “ Mayflower ” novels will be 
sent, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States or Canada 
on receipt of price. 

BROADWAY SERIES. 

No. PAPER, 60 CENTS. 

It SwtOt is J. F. Molloy, author of ^^That Villain Romeo/* etc. 

2. Out &t TwimiStt’S— John Habbbrton, author of ** Helen's Babies.** 

3. Pretty Kitty Herrick. — E. Kennard, author of * 'Straight as a Die/* etc. 
4. Beatrice and Benedick— Hawlby smart, author ** Tie and Trick/* etc. 
6. AHardLeSSOn— E. Lovett Camhron, author of “The Wicked World/’etc. 
6t Sir Anth.Ony’ S Seeret — Adblinb Sbrgeant, author of “Jacobi’sWife/*etc. 
7t BoUarOCracy — Anonymous, Illustrated by F. Vbr Beck. 

8. A Boyal XiOVer — E. L. Cameron, author of " a Life's Mistake,*’ etc. 

9. Alone on a Wide Sea-w. Clark Russbll, aut. “The Golden Hope,’*etc. 
10. The Catherwood Mystery — Albert P, Southwick, aut. “ Bijou,** etc. 

lie The Other Bond — Dora Russell, author of “ Footprints in the Snow.*» 

12. A Modern Dick Whittington-jAMEs payn. 

MAYFLOWER LIBRARY. 

No. PAPER. 30 CENTS. 

1* ^7ell T^On — Mrs. Alexander, author of “ The Wooing o’T/* etc 
2. Back to Life-T. W. Speight, author of *‘ A Barren Title,** etc. 

3> One Tonck of Mature — Margaret Les, author of “ Divorce,** etc. 

4. The Peer and the Woman-s. P. Oppenheim. 

5i W'ell Out of It — John Habberton, author of “Helen’s Babies,’* etc. 


Jot)T) A. Teiylor & Co., 

119 POTTER BUILDING, NEW YORK, 









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